Leibman, Nina C. “Sexual Misdemeanor/Psychoanalytic Felony.” Cinema Journal, 26.2 (Winter,    1987):    27-38. University of Texas Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadephia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

In this article, Leibman analyzes the deterioration of Blanche’s mental health, and relates it to both Freudian theory and inherent sexism in Hollywood. A specialist of psychoanalysis in film theory, Leibman comments on the rising predominance of women in Freudian-oriented films after the 1950s. To her, sex and sexuality appear to be the essential factors for a heroine’s mental illness, and a protagonist falling victim to her own sexuality is no exception in Streetcar. Though the actual cause of Blanche’s developing insanity is unknown to audiences, Leibman believes that her promiscuity is what ultimately leads to her downfall. Taking psychiatry into account, Leibman believes that Hollywood maintains an inherent patriarchal status quo by ignoring Freud’s theories of repression and neurosis. Freud states that it is important to release our repressed sexual thoughts in order to avoid any form of psychosis—and because Blanche does not succeed in liberating these notions, she is essentially “punished” for her restraint through expulsion from her hometown and family, along with paranoia and other forms of mental illness.
Even though Blanche continually professes her innocence, all her of claims are nullified by her behavior. However, because viewers hear of these improprieties indirectly, it is harder for her to earn an audience’s sympathy. In comparison, Leibman claims that Stella, who may initially seem to embody an almost longing for her husband, is also victim to this psychological sexism. While her attraction to Stanley is blatant, the fact that she loves him rather than lusts for him reemphasizes the fact that desire is what “destroys” women. Thus, Leibman argues that because Stella is passive she is feminine, while Blanche’s overt sexuality keeps her from traditionally female ideals, such as a calm, selfless, nurturing disposition. Though Leibman’s claims may not be grounded in fact, she provides a provocative counterargument for those who celebrate Streetcar’s progressive representations of modern society.
 

Kazan, Elia and Richard Schechner and Theodore Hoffman. “Look, There’s the American    Theater.” The Tulane Drama Review, 9.2 (Winter, 1964): 61-83. The MIT Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

This interview of Elia Kazan is a privileged glimpse into the mind of the director of A Streetcar Named Desire. Blunt and pragmatic, he answers The Tulane Review’s questions about his production of Arthur Miller’s play, After the Fall, with a philosophical outlook expressed by brusque language. Though Kazan is a film director, this article gives readers an opportunity to understand Kazan’s priorities as a theatre director, which is significant as Streetcar was originally a play. Though Kazan shuns his title as “America’s foremost director” and refuses to be associated with Hollywood’s realism, a softer side is revealed once he discusses the playwrights whom he admires most and his objectives when it comes to putting a play on stage at Lincoln Center. Kazan says, “I believe in passionate objectivity; but I also believe in passionate subjectivity.” It is this reason why he admires “experimental” authors such as Arthur Miller: “whether you like him or not, [he] is not trying to lie about himself.”
    Perhaps this was the same reason why Kazan was willing to turn Williams’ play into a film. Though Kazan never comments on his production of Streetcar directly, he does criticize American culture that Williams so blatantly rebels against: “In America, you’re either a success or you’re a failure... There’s a thing called progress, which isn’t understood in this country.” It is clear that Kazan has no issues when it comes to bringing something controversial to the center of a stage, andhis enthusiasm for this process reveals just how much time and thought he puts in to each of his productions. He thoroughly discusses his “Method” techniques when it comes to his actors, explaining the importance of improvisation, sense memory, the emotional recall, and the “Private Moment” all in one work. It is this transformation of actor to character that Kazan seems to enjoy most: “What our stage does is put a strong light on a person, on the inner life, the feelings of a person. They become monumental things... They’re out there living right in your midst.” Perhaps this is why Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh were so acclaimed for their abilities to portray Stanley and Blanche; under Kazan’s direction, it seems as though any character can come to life.
 

Kaplan, Donald M. “Homosexuality and American Theatre: A Psychoanalytic Comment.” The    Tulane Drama Review, 9.3 (Spring, 1965): 25-55. The MIT Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

 In this article, Kaplan comments on the increased display of homosexuality in American theater, and tries to explain why this change had come about by 1965. It is important to note that, as taboo as homosexuality may be today, in the 1960’s dialogue regarding the subject was simply unmentionable. Not half as much research on the “true” factors for a homosexual being had been conducted, while the limitations on a homosexual’s “mentality and creative vision” were far more pervasive. Nevertheless, Kaplan opens his discussion with a quote straight from Elia Kazan (an artist who’s sexuality, he believes, is “questionable): “The whole concept is rather thrilling, the realization of a dream. In the few days that we have been working together I have had more fun than I have had in years.” This “realization,” Kaplan states, is the transformation of a homosexual’s dreams into reality—a reality that is becoming more and more popular in modern America, he believes. Unfortunately, Kaplan quickly seems to contradict this “modern” notion by defending homosexuals through the “verified” results of outdated ink-blot tests; nevertheless, he quickly goes on to discuss both scientific and social beliefs regarding the notion of sexuality.
    Tennessee Williams was one of these homosexual artists whose dreams have been realized, and while the Streetcar film has toned down many of its intended homosexual undertones, the original version is almost blatant in its discussion of homosexuality. Kaplan criticizes the play for its “Me-Tarzan-You-Jane” sexuality when it comes to Stanley’s relationship with both Stella and Blanche, citing the unrefined terms “making out” and “getting those colored lights going on” as crude representations of heterosexual relationships. However, Blanche’s one true love happened to be gay. This “nervous, tender, uncertain boy” who wrote poetry is sympathetically portrayed, and is arguably a pivotal character in Streetcar’s synopsis. This fact proves Kaplan’s point that homosexual “rebellion against instinctual deprivation” is rapidly spreading in both American theater and cinema. It also sheds light on the changing face of what American authors were willing to write and what American audiences were willing to see.
 

Berg, Charles Merrell. “Cinema Sings the Blues.” Cinema Journal, 17.2 (Spring 1978): 1-12. University of Texas Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. .

In this article, Berg discusses the relationship between jazz and film—two four-letter words that have experienced criticism, praise, and evolution. Beginning with the similarities between the two, Berg recounts how the origins of jazz and film both begin on the outskirts of society, without much popular support and created through the use of experimentation. Both have experienced problems with the development of technology, both have represented political and social issues, and both have unquestionably transformed American culture, Berg claims. From jazz’s impact on World War I to ragtime, the blues, and the consequent Jazz Age, Berg notes that the highpoint of jazz and the Golden Age of Hollywood were rather simultaneous. Jazz was particularly important once sound was introduced to film, and became a rather commercial commodity once Hollywood began to utilize it (leading to Hollywood’s attempt to “jazz up jazz”). It breathed life into animation, shed light on the significance of black culture in America, vividly portrayed the urban landscapes from which is was born, and soon became a viable alternative to traditional film scores provided by orchestras and symphonies.
Jazz happened to become “officially legitimized” in Hollywood during the early 1950s—exactly when A Streetcar Named Desire was made. Why the 1950s? By this time, Berg states, jazz had experienced its own renaissance, and had become much more sophisticated in sound. Varied and a “sound of surprise,” jazz became a dramatic element in narrative film score, and Streetcar’s soundtrack is no exception. Due to the more realistic content of 1950s film, along with its increased attention toward “misfits and deviants” (Blanche DuBois being a prime example), jazz seemed the most appropriate music to underscore the mood, tension, and storylines of feature films. Just as Tennessee Williams believed there were no rules as to what content he was allowed to comment on, jazz’s use of improvisation and spontaneity complements his forward thinking style in an age where tradition and conformity were still strongly adhered to.

Spain, Daphne. “Race Relations and Residential Segregation in New Orleans: Two Centuries of    Paradox.” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 441 (Jan. 1979): 82-96. Sage Publications, Inc. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7    April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

In this article, Spain explains the history of New Orleans, and recounts the racial and residential segregation that has always seemed to exist there. Known as “the city that care forgot,” New Orleans was founded by the French in 1718, handed over to the Spanish in 1763, and given back the French in 1800, who then came into conflict with the Native Americans there. All of this laid the foundation for many of the identity crises New Orleans was to experience later on. There were multiple layers of race and ethnicity, with the Spaniards and French constituting the majority of the white population, while slave blacks and free blacks made up the black population. This severe divide in the black community contributed to many of the class distinctions that New Orleans experienced well into the twentieth century. Once the Americans arrived in 1808, yet another group of people was added to the already-tense city, leading to intense apathy toward Americans in general. New Orleans became the biggest supplier of slaves once the importation of slaves was banned, is the place of origin for the phrase “separate but equal,” and heavily exercised Jim Crow laws. Though integration began to emerge in the 1940s due to housing projects, it still remained one of America’s poorest cities.
    Such is the setting for A Streetcar Named Desire. Though New Orleans was filled with “real” people with a strong work ethic and the American dream, it was also a place associated with alcoholism, prostitution, and crime. Thus, it is no surprise that Blanche was so horrified at her sister’s new residence: compared to a Mississippi plantation, New Orleans was completely devoid of physical space, yet social distance was vast. The fact that Stella and Stanley live in the French Quarter, a highly romanticized area, yet still experience such emotional strife further contributes to Williams’ play with New Orleans’ contradictions. Spain notes that New Orleans is known as the “birthplace of jazz,” but is also where “being sold down the river” came about. This internal conflict is the perfect backdrop for the characters of Streetcar, as each struggled with internal conflicts of their own.
 

Presley, Delma Eugene. “The Moral Function of Distortion in Southern Grotesque.” South Atlantic Bulletin, 37.2 (May 1972): 37-46. South Atlantic Modern Language Association. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

In this article, Presley explores the use of grotesque literature by American authors around the second half of the twentieth century. Both a literary movement and writing style associated with the Southern Gothic, grotesque literature is meant to induce both empathy and disgust in readers, and traditionally explores characters who are physically, mentally, or morally disadvantaged or incompetent. Created as an aftermath of historical misfortunate and the “cultural confusion” of the South’s agrarian roots in an age of progress, writers such as Truman Capote, Flannery O’Connor, and Tennessee Williams all wrote in the grotesque style in order to reveal the character of the American South and to bring social issues to light through supernatural, ironic, or unusual events. Founded on the use of Gothic archetypes such as the “damsel in distress” motif, grotesque writers took clichéd subject matter and placed it in a modern context. Presley commends grotesque writers for giving readers insight into the cultural dilemmas relating to the south, yet also finds that many of these issues are taken out of context and are often distorted for dramatic purposes.
    Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire is a prime example of a grotesque piece of literature. Flannery O’Connor stated that grotesque writers are “faced with the reality that they live in an age whose distortions function as indicators of how far man has drifted from his true image as a creature of God.” In this vein, Williams explores the corruption of mankind, along with its difficulties in reconciling its primal nature with the rules of society: Blanche’s charm and beauty is overridden by her alcoholism, nymphomania, and general debauchery, while Stanley’s work ethic is conquered by his animalistic brutality. Because he believes desires of the “flesh and the spirit” cannot exists harmoniously in society, Williams also explores the impossibility of durable love, which is evidenced at the end of Streetcar when Stella finally leaves her husband. Thus, Presley’s analysis of grotesque literature not only reveals the methodology behind Williams’ play, but why he chose to write it in the first place. 

Weinraub, Bernard. “For a Less Restrained Era, a Restored 'Streetcar'; The steam around Brando,    Leigh and Hunter Gets Even Steamier.” New York Times (16 Sept. 1993): C12. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/8765>.

This newspaper article, written forty years after Streetcar was released, announces a re-release of the film that includes dialogue, extra shots, and additional music from the original score that was initially cut due to “inappropriate” sexual content. Beginning with an overview of the film that mentions its four Oscars and twelve nominations, Weinraub recounts the stringent Motion Pictures Production Code and Catholic Legion of Decency in 1929 that attempted to ban Streetcar from theaters altogether. According to the president of Warner Brothers, the film was restored in order to enliven the sexual undertones that Tennessee Williams always intended to display. Stella and Stanley’s primal attraction, the seemingly innocent Blanche’s promiscuous history, the sexual tension between Blanch and Stanley, and Blanche and Stanley’s violent rape scene have all been intensified in Streetcar’s latest version.
As Streetcar was overwhelmingly risqué for 1950s film, Weinraub also makes a point of discussing Williams’ and director Elia Kazan’s relationship with Hollywood officials during the initial production of the film. According to Warner Brothers documents that had just been released to the public, Kazan and Williams were on the brink of disassociating themselves with the production of Streetcar entirely due to the many “moral” objections they received, particularly in regard to the rape scene. Defending his work, Williams claimed that his rape scene was anything but immoral; in fact, he stated it was “a pivotal, integral truth in the play, without which the play loses its meaning, which is the ravishment of the tender, the sensitive, the delicate, by the savage and brutal forces in modern society.” Thus, this situation not only exhibits Williams’ commitment to truth in a world filled with sins such as alcoholism, violence, and suicide (all of which is explores in his film), but also reveals Kazan’s realist priorities as a director. Furthermore, this clichéd conflict between the subordinate artist and superior capitalist sheds light on just how dramatically film has changed over the course of fifty years.
 

Vlasopolos, Anca. “Victimization in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’.” Theatre Journal, 38.3 (Oct.    1986):    322-338. Johns Hopkins Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

This article is a fascinating look at Williams’ play from a feminist perspective. Anca Vlasopolos, an English professor, traces Blanche’s character throughout the novel and reveals the multiple facets of its inherently sexist nature. Though Blanche may be perceived as the heroine of Williams’ story, Vlasopolos argues that Blanche represents the female as the cliched “perfect victim,” and it is this fact that makes Williams’ work a “problem,” or regressive, piece of writing. To readers, Blanche appears to be the epitome of a “Southern belle”—her language is prim and flowery, her outfits are glamorous, her face is full of makeup, her education is extensive—yet she is also the prey of an undeniable patriarchy that persists in an era of “progress.” Vlasopolos claims that the allusions of Williams’ writing, which are also evident in Kazan’s direction of the Streetcar film, reveal this discrimination.
She believes that Blanche is disadvantaged in every way: though beautiful, she is, more importantly, homeless, unwanted, alone, physically weak, and incapable of upholding her responsibilities. Even when she seeks to control the littler things, such as lighting, decor, and costume, she fails. Blanche only appears to be an authority figure when arguing over the ownership of her family estate, Belle Reve, yet even in this sense she proves incompetent, as she is the one who mismanaged the land. Thus, while Blance’s descent into mental illness may be viewed as a happy ending, as this break from reality ultimately frees her from the chains of the Kowalski household, Vlasopolos believes that she is merely a caricature of a gender-determined exclusion from society. Aside from obvious chauvinism, Vlasopolos manages to reveal sexist subtleties such as Stanley and Blanche’s uncanny similarities and the representation of Blanche as an allegory for characters such as the Grim Reaper, the goddess Daphne, and other legends. In this way, Vlasopolos’ analysis of Streetcar reaches depths that no reader can discern the first time they read Williams’ play. The beauty of Williams’ work lies in the layers of his prose, and it is these intricacies that Kazan emulates in his 1951 film. Her criticisms may be controversial, but it is these critiques that made Streetcar one of the most contentious works of the mid-twentieth century.