"Streetcar" Players Win Audience Acclaim by Charlotte Capers As Streetcar has been reviewed over a period of years, won both Critics and Pulitzer prizes, and played in London and Paris, there should be no trick to reviewing it. Except that Jackson audiences are different from audiences in New York, London, and Paris and possibly even Chicago. And so a bit of amplification from both sides of the footlights should be in order. To the query often heard last night in the City Auditorium: "Why would anyone write a play like that?" one could reply that so good an authority as Aristotle once said something similar to this: The function of drama, through exercise of the emotions of fear and pity, is to act as a catharsis on the human soul. We know this is a misquote, but it seems to take care oft he gist of the thing. Then one might add: Life sometimes is like that. And further, Mr. Thomas Lanier (Tennessee) Williams, of Columbus, Mississippi, and New York, must by now have quite a hunk of folding money as a result which transferred its hapless passenger to the streetcar called Cemeteries and deposited her at Elysian Fields. So we have established, we hope, quite a few good reasons for Mr. Williams to write a most unpleasant play about the disintegration of a woman's soul and mind. Now from the audience side of the footlights, we quite agree that with death and disaster abounding in the headlines, it seems silly to pay three dollars and ninety cents to witness more than two hours of stark tragedy. It seems especially silly to pay anything to witness anything in the City Auditorium, which had its usual hazards last night, including heat, poor acoustics, and seats placed at intervals that would have cramped a midget. That is, it seems unless you get a particular bang out of exceptionally fine acting, and are moved by a human experience that could happen and on occasion does happen in New York, Paris, London, Chicago, and possibly even Jackson. The disintegration of Blanche DuBois, who was witness to a long parade in the graveyard, was brilliantly interpreted by Judith Evelyn, who used her voice expertly to capture the jumpy illustration of neurasthenia. Her last scene was high tragedy. We found ourselves worrying about her throat muscles, if she screams "Fire" so convincingly every night. If she tires of poor broken Blanche she can surely endorse any cigarette and make a comfortable living. Peggy Rae, who some of us met last weekend when she visited Bally Whitney here, did a nice job as Eunice, the neighbor upstairs. Jorja Cartright as "Stella for star," couldn't have been better, as the unwholesome influence of Blanche destroys her home and she fights old loyalties for new. We could quarrel with Ralph Meeker's Stanley, for surely no one is that simian. His rolling gait, achieved no doubt to underscore his male animalism, reminded us only of Jack Tar walking a quarterdeck in a high wind at sea. Far better was Jim Nolan's carefully delineated Mitch, who needed somebody, but not Blanche. Best of all was the highly imaginative set, representing two rooms in a New Orleans slum. To the audience that complained about the theme of the play, we would suggest that before buying tickets, they check the subject. Certainly it was not an evening of entertainment, and anyone who went expecting to be entertained was disappointed. There were a few moments of intense pity, shattered by misplaced laughs. We couldn't place the blame here, perhaps the cast, perhaps the audience. Also, we mention the same old rule about ladies taking off hats. This should apply with triple force on the flat floor of the Auditorium. Otherwise, the audience was most courteous, and responded enthusiastically to the actors, a good deal less than enthusiastically to the play itself. (4)
Charlotte Capers, Tennessee Williams, and the Mississippi premiere of A Streetcar Named Desire.
Kolin, Philip C.
"Streetcar" Players Win Audience Acclaim by Charlotte Capers As Streetcar has been reviewed over a period of years, won both Critics and Pulitzer prizes, and played in London and Paris, there should be no trick to reviewing it. Except that Jackson audiences are different from audiences in New York, London, and Paris and possibly even Chicago. And so a bit of amplification from both sides of the footlights should be in order. To the query often heard last night in the City Auditorium: "Why would anyone write a play like that?" one could reply that so good an authority as Aristotle once said something similar to this: The function of drama, through exercise of the emotions of fear and pity, is to act as a catharsis on the human soul. We know this is a misquote, but it seems to take care oft he gist of the thing. Then one might add: Life sometimes is like that. And further, Mr. Thomas Lanier (Tennessee) Williams, of Columbus, Mississippi, and New York, must by now have quite a hunk of folding money as a result which transferred its hapless passenger to the streetcar called Cemeteries and deposited her at Elysian Fields. So we have established, we hope, quite a few good reasons for Mr. Williams to write a most unpleasant play about the disintegration of a woman's soul and mind. Now from the audience side of the footlights, we quite agree that with death and disaster abounding in the headlines, it seems silly to pay three dollars and ninety cents to witness more than two hours of stark tragedy. It seems especially silly to pay anything to witness anything in the City Auditorium, which had its usual hazards last night, including heat, poor acoustics, and seats placed at intervals that would have cramped a midget. That is, it seems unless you get a particular bang out of exceptionally fine acting, and are moved by a human experience that could happen and on occasion does happen in New York, Paris, London, Chicago, and possibly even Jackson. The disintegration of Blanche DuBois, who was witness to a long parade in the graveyard, was brilliantly interpreted by Judith Evelyn, who used her voice expertly to capture the jumpy illustration of neurasthenia. Her last scene was high tragedy. We found ourselves worrying about her throat muscles, if she screams "Fire" so convincingly every night. If she tires of poor broken Blanche she can surely endorse any cigarette and make a comfortable living. Peggy Rae, who some of us met last weekend when she visited Bally Whitney here, did a nice job as Eunice, the neighbor upstairs. Jorja Cartright as "Stella for star," couldn't have been better, as the unwholesome influence of Blanche destroys her home and she fights old loyalties for new. We could quarrel with Ralph Meeker's Stanley, for surely no one is that simian. His rolling gait, achieved no doubt to underscore his male animalism, reminded us only of Jack Tar walking a quarterdeck in a high wind at sea. Far better was Jim Nolan's carefully delineated Mitch, who needed somebody, but not Blanche. Best of all was the highly imaginative set, representing two rooms in a New Orleans slum. To the audience that complained about the theme of the play, we would suggest that before buying tickets, they check the subject. Certainly it was not an evening of entertainment, and anyone who went expecting to be entertained was disappointed. There were a few moments of intense pity, shattered by misplaced laughs. We couldn't place the blame here, perhaps the cast, perhaps the audience. Also, we mention the same old rule about ladies taking off hats. This should apply with triple force on the flat floor of the Auditorium. Otherwise, the audience was most courteous, and responded enthusiastically to the actors, a good deal less than enthusiastically to the play itself. (4)