Film Review: A Streetcar Named Desire

There's nothing I like more than a good list. I'm not bothered about the subject matter - the hundred greatest guitarists, Hollywood's biggest crackheads, the top ten gymnasts of the 21^st century – if it's in a carefully ordered, numbered list, I want to know the outcome. I especially enjoy film-related lists; which is just as well given their ubiquity. However I rarely agree with the outcome of these countdowns. Everything is fine until you get to the top twenty and beyond. Yes, the universally acclaimed greats are present and correct - The Godfather, Raging Bull, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest – but alongside them sit esoteric reminders of a bygone era. Films like 1927's Metropolis, All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) or Mutiny on the Bounty (1935). Those films don't belong there. They're too old. I've never seen them, and have no intention of ever seeing them.

But where's the cut-off point, at what stage do I bury my pre-conceptions and give these classics a fair go? Well for me it's the 1960s. I figure this to be a reasonable compromise on my part. The sixties were cool; pop music, drugs, the space-age, the Cold War. So that's my start point, everything before that is off-limits. And it's worked out just fine; This Sporting Life, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Rosemary's Baby – a great decade for films. Fuck the fifties and the forties, and the nineteen-fucking-twenties, I don't need to see any of that fusty old nonsense. But then, the other day, I found myself embroiled in a conversation with a cinephile, someone who doesn't share my disdain for anything pre-dating Psycho. And before I knew it I was agreeing to watch something from 1951. Something dangerously outside my comfort zone. This is what I get for being such an open-minded sort.

So, with a heavy heart, I logged into my torrent site of choice and searched for the film in question. And there it was: A Streetcar Named Desire - four torrents available. How very reassuring. Torrent downloaded, transferred to USB, and inserted into 39” wide-screen HD-TV, I sat down to watch what would be the oldest piece of cinema I had ever viewed. And guess what? It held up perfectly. Yes it was very much of its time. But it had aged gracefully. It was engaging, involving and, at times, even riveting. In many ways A Streetcar Named Desire is a lesson in film-making, a parable for all wannabee directors. And it's all so simple; acquire an incredible screenplay, a selection of outrageously talented actors, and set up camp in a couple of small, almost claustrophobic, locations. And hey presto, you've got yourself a slice of cinematic history.

The film opens with its central character, Blanche DuBois, arriving in New Orleans to stay with her sister, Stella. At first glance Blanche, played by Vivien Leigh, appears to be your typical 1950s screen-siren, all winsome and whispery, a delicate, fragile little thing. And as she makes her way to Stella's home she looks very much out of her depth, a lady lost on the wrong side of town. When she sees what is to be her home for the next few days; a run-down apartment with only a curtain separating its two main chambers, you can almost feel her heart fluttering in fear. Clearly Blanche is used to a better standard of living, something she is eager to remind her sister of at every available opportunity. However her living arrangements are really the least of her worries, because pretty soon Stella's husband, Stanley, will arrive home, and he is not one to be trifled with.

That is essentially the film's premise, an altogether ordinary tale, a mundane one almost. But the very best stories manage to make the ordinary seem extraordinary and that is what Tennessee Williams does here. There are only four speaking roles in the film – save for a couple of bit-part characters – but so focused are you on their words, and their interactions, that it matters little. Much of this is down to the quite staggering performances of the two leads. I will dissect Vivien Leigh's work in due course, but it would be remiss of me to go any further without discussing Marlon Brando and his monumental achievements herein.

In keeping with my philistinian ways I had only ever seen Brando perform in four films prior to watching Streetcar. They were: The Godfather, Apocalypse Now, Superman and The Score. I knew all about his reputation as one of the greatest actors of all time but only had those four pared-down roles as proof of his talents. So when I sat down to watch Streetcar I was entirely unprepared for what I was about to witness. From the moment he first appears on screen I was left agog, “what is this creature?” “Is it human?” “A Greek God sent from the ages to mesmerise all who cross his path?” “Or, simply God himself, checking in on his disciples before returning to his heavenly palace?” I couldn't take my eyes off him. One can only imagine how the women of that time felt when confronted by this brooding presence at their local cineplexes.

And then he starts to act, or rather, he doesn't. Marlon Brando may be listed as Stanley Kowalski in the film's credits, and he may have been nominated for a Best Actor award at that year's Oscars, but he's not acting here. If he is it's not like any other acting I've seen. It as if the screen is his natural habitat, and a film just happens to be taking place around him. Everything he does is so effortless, so natural, that I refuse to believe it was scripted, that the words he spoke were created by somebody else and then handed to him to repeat. And anyway he doesn't really even need words. They are merely just a means to an end. He performs with his entire body. And that is a term I would have deemed ludicrous just a few short days ago.

As if all this wasn't enough Brando has been blessed with something not quite approaching a voice, I would describe it more as a muscle, an instrument of great power. He grunts and mumbles his way through some scenes, his dialect so garbled as to be indecipherable, before exploding to life in others, then simmering just long enough for the audience to catch its breath before repeating the entire process over again. His wife, and the victim of most of his outbursts, is encouraged to leave him and never return. But how could she possibly leave him? How could anyone? It's only been a couple of hours since I watched the film and already I miss him. And while Stanley's relationship with his wife is at once fractious, passionate and vexing, it is his discomforting association with Blanche which propels the film forward.

He is at once wholly unimpressed with his sister-in-law. Not only that, he is suspicious of her also, suspicious of her reasons for being there, and suspicious of her past. For her part she seems to have only one weapon in her armoury with which to defend herself; her womanly charms. And they are on the wane. What is a woman to do in such circumstances? In Blanche's case it's transform into a worrisome maiden in one instance, and a deluded, delirious fantasiser in others. For at least the first third of the film Leigh's character is nothing more than an annoyance. She appears a querulous presence designed to highlight just how brutish Stanley really is. And then we see her anew, we see her as a predator, a young boy her prey. All at once she is a different entity, and our suspicions are aroused now too. Just who is this woman, and where did she come from?

Rumours about Blanche's past abound, with everything from her virtue to her sanity questioned. Is it the presence of those rumours which force us to look at her in a different light? Or does Leigh's gentle prodding of the character change our outlook? Perhaps it's a combination of both. But what can't be argued is the extremes in which Leigh goes to portray this horrendously conflicted woman. Blanche's aversion to daylight and indeed, any forms of light, is attributed to her vanity, but in many ways she is Bram Stoker's Dracula's; a demonic entity masquerading as a charming, flatterer of the opposite sex. In this instance she attempts to ensnare Mitch, an ally of Stanley's played by the latterly famous Karl Malden. Their trysts are as torrid and as tense as anything Stella and Stanley can conjure up, but in an entirely different way. What we have is an earnest, honest man looking for someone with whom to make a home. But deep down he, just like us, knows that Blanche isn't that woman.

Ultimately this is a film about morality, about maintaining your integrity under the greatest of duress. None of the protagonists come off well in that regard, their prejudices toward one another almost as pronounced as their cowardice and selfishness. On a personal level it has certainly opened my eyes. It's by no means a beloved film of mine; I enjoyed it mainly for the acting performances, the artistry of the script, and the story-telling. But is has showed me that films from this particular aeon are far more accessible than I had once thought. Indeed it could be argued that this was the real golden era of cinema, a time when acting and writing were the principal components of any worthwhile movie. Of course the only way for me to discover whether this assertion holds any weight is to continue my exploration of 1950s film. Now, what else was Brando in during that decade I wonder?

You just don't get it

Did you like that film? Are you sure? Are you really sure?

“What is your favourite film”?

For many this question is a simple one and the answer is given without a second’s thought. Your favourite film is like a badge of honour and it says a lot about you. Upon telling a fellow movie fan the title of your beloved you nervously wait for their reaction. Have you passed the test? Is your movie cool enough? Are you to be derided as a no nothing philistine unable to form an intelligent opinion all by yourself? Oh the tension of it all.

My favourite film is The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. If you feel the need to ask which one then stop reading now please. However when people ask me that ill fated question I don’t always respond as I should. I don’t wax lyrical about Tobe Hooper’s classic and explain just what it is I love about it. Instead I sometimes fall back on my number two option: One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Why do I do this? Why do I shy away from firmly pledging my allegiances to one of the most visceral pieces of cinema ever made? Because I’m afraid that’s why.

In today’s society so much emphasis is placed on liking the right things. Now you’d think that I’d be old enough and wise enough to be unaffected by this pretentious charade but no, I’m affected too. Not as much as others admittedly but still enough to think twice before divulging my love for TTCM. Just picture the scene: I’m at a late night soiree where I know only a handful of the people in attendance. The conversation turns to film. “So what’s your favourite movie then Simon”? Time stands still. Will I or won’t I? I smile nervously as I utter those dreaded words, “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”.

Immediately the majority of people in the room have me down as some sort of deranged loon. “He likes that schlock horror genre, what an absolute peasant”. As others in the vicinity are quizzed a variety of answers come up, Woody Allen’s name is mentioned a few times, film-noir, I think the word dystopian is bandied about a bit too. I should feel like the uncultured fuckwit that I clearly am. But I don’t you see. I don’t. Because I’m unique in this room. How so you ask? Because I’m the only one telling the truth.

All these imaginary people and their imaginary choices may just be a product of my imagination but they are all too real. We have all encountered them. The type who feel that associating themselves with an obscure piece of art automatically makes them more intelligent. The type who will suppress a snigger as you dismiss their favoured work as “fuckin shite” and knowingly reply “you just didn’t get it”. I just didn’t get it. I didn’t get the hidden meanings and the references to the work of Shakespeare or Cervantes or Oedipus or whoever. Oh poor me, I am so stupid.

Hidden meanings. Since when were films about hidden meanings. It’s not a Where’s Wally competition. It’s a film. I got all the meanings. What do I win? There is no prize, I’m sorry. As a reward you can talk to all the other dullards about how you all got the hidden meanings and how bloody great you all are. Half the time the hidden meanings aren’t even intentional. I’ve lost count of the amount of film reviews I’ve read where the boorish critic meanders off on aimless tangents all based around a hidden meaning which the director probably has no idea even exists. Give me strength.

Ah yes critics. Those who criticise. I put a lot of faith in film critics and will rarely watch a film unless it’s been received to relative acclaim. I have no idea why I do this though. Is there a more pretentious bunch of clowns on this earth than that of the film critique club? I call it a club because I imagine them all meeting up for port and cheddar on a weekly basis while talking out their collective arses about the latest film releases. Yes occasionally they get it right and there are plenty of film critics whose views I trust but on the whole they’re a bunch of pompous, self-preening egotists.

Take Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. They went into overdrive on that one. It’s so authentic they said. It really captures the mood of 1970s England they said. Okay I said, I’ll go see what the fuss is about. And oh yes how very authentic it was. And how very reminiscent of 1970s England too. Marvellous stuff. Just one little problem. It was utterly devoid of entertainment. But yet each and every critic couldn’t get enough of it. Was I the only one who ‘didn’t get it’? Not again, fuck sake. But wait, no. There were others. Countless others. In fact everyone I spoke to thought the same as me. Drab, uninteresting, soulless movie-making of the worst kind. So why all the plaudits then?

I have a theory on this. All the members of the critique club gather at the first screening of TTSS ( I love a good acronym me). As the credits roll one of the senior members looks around the room for a reaction. He’s met by the searching eyes of his fellow club-mates. What to do? He ponders the mood for a second before nailing his colours to the mast, “Well I thought that was jolly well stupendous, so many hidden meanings”. At once all of his companions nod in agreement and so it begins. Yet another wankfest. One or two of those in attendance felt exactly like you and I. They thought it was awful, terrible in fact. But when it comes to writing their review what do they do? They tow the company line and give it five stars. And why? For fear of being accused of not ‘getting it’.

So this then filters down to the public at large and in no time at all I’m sitting at a soiree steadfastly refusing to bow to the pressures of the group mentality. “How could you not like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” they say, almost incredulous at my sheer sub normality. Not to be outdone I turn the tables on them, “So what did you like about it then”? I ask with a forked tongue. This sets them off on some idiotic ramble which sounds ever so familiar. When the spiel finally comes to a protracted end I know I have won. I may have won but sadly society has lost. Because this ostentatious oaf has just spent the last five minutes reciting, almost word for word, the film review penned by one of the very worst offenders in the critique club. Circle of life indeed.

When it comes down to it I like what I like because I like it. On any given day that can be a spectacular effects-laden action movie, a slow-paced cerebral Ukrainian drama or a stoner comedy featuring one of those blokes with the curly hair. There truly is no accounting for taste. But liking Michael Bay’s new release doesn’t make me an imbecile, in the same way that enjoying Michael Haneke’s work doesn’t automatically make me an aristocrat. They are films. Nothing more. Don’t look down on others for not sharing your appreciation of David Lynch. Don’t smile your conceited smile and say “You just don’t get it”. But most importantly don’t judge me for loving The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

Netflix, and it's impact on a naysayer

Now I'm a believer....

For years I fended them off with excuses, “Takes too long to download”, “I don’t like watching films on my laptop”, “It’s illegal you know” and various other pleas all intended to shut them up and stop them trying to tempt me with their fancy new means of film watching. What could I say? I was a traditionalist and despite the extra costs involved I still enjoyed the now seemingly archaic practise of going into my local retail or rental store and perusing the shelves before paying cold, hard cash for a physical copy of whatever film I fancied viewing. Oh how they laughed as they watched films not even out in the cinemas yet while I steadfastly refused to join them in their deviant ways. I may have been out of pocket but I was on the right side of the law and when the whole thing came crashing down and all their homes were being infiltrated by the FBI I’d have the last laugh.

I’m not sure why but I’ve never taken to the idea of downloading movies for free on the internet. My above excuses were only applicable to an extent. As broadband speeds in Ireland became fast enough to download even the biggest of files in a matter of minutes my first excuse was rendered utterly obsolete. I don’t like watching films on my laptop though, that much is true. “You can hook it up to your TV or put them on a USB stick”, I was told before muttering something about ‘too many wires’ and skulking back to my DVD collection to pick out an old favourite. As for the legality issue?! Half the stuff I watch online is probably illegal anyway so I couldn’t lay claim to being any kind of law abiding citizen that was for sure.

Other issues such as picture quality, virus threats and the simple fact that I liked to pick and choose what I wanted to watch rather than cold heartedly pinpoint a target before downloading it in a clinical manner all played their part in ensuring that I never once felt like joining all those law breakers and was content to live in a relatively bygone age. However as the recession hit and lavish spending in local stores became a thing of the past so I felt my choices becoming constricted. Whereas at one time I would have had no issue forking out a tenner, and sometimes more, on a film I now baulked at retail prices and the few purchases I did make invariably came from online stores. Although I was still reluctant to fully embrace the digital age I was at least making an effort.

Vowing to no longer pay the exorbitant prices offered by high street stores I found myself turning to other avenues. Having a digital video recorder in the comfort of your own home is a tremendous luxury and I trawled the TV listings ensuring that any film that may be of even the slightest interest was recorded and stored for my viewing pleasure at a later date. This was all well and good but save for a few interesting indie flicks on Film Four and the occasional gem on the terrestrial channels I was left with pickings of a decidedly slim variety. The other option was of course the rental store and trawling through the foreign cinema section was, and still is, a pleasure that I’m always happy to avail of. But again the cost element was proving increasingly prohibitive. New releases for €5? You’re having a laugh! Two new releases for a tenner and we’ll throw in a carton of popcorn? Sure what would I want with yeer shitty popcorn when I have mountains of goodies from Dealz waiting for me at home.

So this was my state of affairs. A film lover in no man’s land, neither here nor there. And then Netflix arrived. Seeming from nowhere and with very little fanfare. Casually scanning the list of new apps on my XBOX, of which there seemed to be one every day, I came across the blood red logo with Netflix emblazoned in white. *adopts tone of Victorian detective unveiling a new, exciting clue* “What could this be”?  I wondered to nobody in particular. “Net? Hmmm, methinks this relates to the internet. Flix? Could it be movie or film related?” I pondered no more and downloaded the app using my super fast Irish broadband. Arriving at the welcome screen I was asked if I’d like to begin my 30 day free trial. God you’re a bit forward aren’t you? I hardly even know you!! I quickly backed out of this eager provider of flix but vowed to return once I’d found out a bit more about it.

Further inspection revealed all sorts of interesting details about this mysterious newcomer. Apparently it provided the opportunity to stream movies through your XBOX, and in High Definition no less! I felt the first quiver of excitement. There was no limit on the amount of content you watched. Another quiver, this time more pressing. After your free trial was over it was only 5.99 per month to avail of the service. Gimme a pen, where do I sign up!! My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by grumblings over the array of films and tv shows available to watch. I checked it for myself and found a few grumbles emitting themselves despite my best intentions. Maybe this wasn’t for me after all. Time to return to the rental store then. But wait! You can access the American Netflix I was informed, and by jove they were right. A few simple settings changes (was this legal? I cared not) on my XBOX and away I went.

The choice on offer still couldn’t compare with the sheer volume of options offered by the file sharing sites, or the rental and retail stores for that matter , but here I was getting the best of both worlds and not only was it legal it was also free, at least for now anyway. I joyfully flicked through the genres cooing gently to myself as I went and wondered how I was going to watch all of the stuff on offer in whatever free time I had. After a solid hour of deliberation and playing around with all the features I watched my first ever film using the internet as means of consumption. That it was a low budget Norwegian fantasy/horror entitled ‘TrollHunter’ is irrelevant, I was now watching movies in the manner of a modern day man and by some strange quirk it actually felt good. But not only was I a convert I now wished to bring new followers to this shiny new chapel. I texted friends and relatives asking them if they’d used this new means of movie watching and urged them to get right on it. Netflix had created the perfect storm and I was determined to ride each and every one of its waves.

It’s early days yet though and I’m determined not to get carried away. I’ve been told that access to the American Netflix only lasts for seven days before us unfortunate souls are consigned to the less attractive European model. What then? I don’t know how good or bad the European version is but I’ll certainly be willing to give it a try for at least the remainder of my trial run. Aside from the movies on offer there are countless TV shows in which to immerse yourself with the possibility of watching an entire series via the Netflix app. Documentaries also feature for those moments when you wish to be entertained and educated at the same time. When you couple Netflix with Muzu, the recently added music app, it seems only a matter of time before Microsoft’s claims about gaming consoles being ‘entertainment hubs’ capable of servicing all our needs comes to fruition.

On a wider scale the arrival of Netflix, and the ease at which even the most cynical of people can be converted, looks set to drive another nail firmly into the coffin of the local retail store. I for one will decry the demise of physical shops where you can walk in and while away the hours browsing to your heart’s content. But when HMV up their special offer on DVDs and CDs from two for €12 to two to €14 like they did at the turn of the year it’s hard to feel any sympathy for them. Sadly it’s only a matter of time before the last remaining stores disappear from our streets altogether as more and more people figure out that there’s cheaper and more importantly easier ways to acquire their goods. Because no matter how much you try and resist change it will eventually find a way of burrowing into your psyche and revising your opinion no matter how deep-set. Take it from me I should know.