A Southern belle’s facade, a brute’s raw dominance, and a sister caught in between — Kazan’s classic thrives not on heroes, but on the chaos of flawed humanity
The film, A Streetcar Named Desire, has been hailed as masterful for many reasons, particularly for its lush setting, lively spectacle, and groundbreaking cinematic performances. While all is worthy of credit and celebration, the film’s most profound breakthrough is that it contains no protagonist — simply two reprehensible antagonists, and a woman caught in the vortex of sin.
Set in post-war 1940s, the film follows Blanche DuBois, a woman from Mississippi who travels to New Orleans to visit her sister, Stella, and her husband, Stanley Kowalski. Elegant in appearance, Blanche embodies the South’s fading aristocracy in both mannerisms and speech. She is reserved but is also reticent, clings to pretensions and clichés, and attempts to conceal her life both past and present.
It becomes clear that Blanche’s antics do not reflect the ordinary superiority complex of a Southern belle, but far more sinister, hidden reasons for secrecy — ones that collide with the Kowalski household, primarily Stanley, who, unabashed in his working-class brashness and uncouth demeanor, is determined to uncover them.
For instance, early on, Stanley asks Blanche about Belle Reeve, the family estate she and Stella inherited and apparently sold in Mississippi. Blanche responds by deflecting and talking past it, only caving in and answering once Stanley presses. Through their entire exchange, Blanche seems artificial — she fishes for compliments, modulates her voice, and prances around. Her pretentious charade aggravates Stanley, whose exclamation, “How about cutting the re-bop!” finally puts the act to rest. It is evident that Blanche has deep insecurities, finding Stanley’s stark directness off-putting and even threatening.
Likewise, Stanley’s brutal honesty is also riddled with flaws — he’s aggressive and volatile, viciously asserting his dominance and masculinity wherever he sees fit. In a boisterous men’s poker night played at home, Stanley becomes irritated by the music from the radio that Blanche, Stella, and their friend Mitch are dancing to in another room. He abruptly gets up, storms into the room they’re in, and smashes the radio through the glass window. Stanley’s animalistic urge is his cardinal sin.
As the film progresses, Stanley and Blanche’s competing defects intensify. And while more is revealed about Blanche’s dark past — the loss of her estate, a suicidal husband, and professional promiscuity — a sense of pity is difficult to feel for her.
From the start, Blanche’s incessant pretense and phoniness, even in seemingly normal and harmless situations, make her an insufferable character. And while many claim her erratic behavior can be explained by mental decline, and therefore ought to be forgiven, the film continually portrays her in a manner where the lines between poor moral character and genuine psychological deterioration are heavily blurred.
Amidst this havoc, Stella is simply the tolerant bridge between the two chaotic worlds — a sympathetic sister to Blanche, and a doubtful but loyal wife to Stanley. While her loyalty to Stanley is ultimately withdrawn, partly because of Blanche, she largely remains intact as the helpless woman caught in their vortex of sin.
A Streetcar Named Desire is an excellent example of a film where no true protagonist exists; only a heartless clash between two deplorable people. Yet this reality is where the film’s beauty lies. Its narrative arc does not require a protagonist, nor does it seek one. It points out the nuances of real life: how it need not reflect situations where a charming hero or a virtuous escapade triumph — but where broken dishes remain broken, and animosity seemingly continues indefinitely — that is, until someone wakes up and decides to do something about it.
Contributed Photo/ Britannica/Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando in A Streetcar named Desire (1951)
