A Streetcar Named Desire - NMU Theatre and Dance

Blanche famously insists that “some things are not forgivable,” and she is unequivocal about which sins fall into that category: “deliberate cruelty is not forgivable… the most unforgivable thing… and the one thing in which I have never, ever been guilty.” That line has echoed in my head throughout this process.  A Streetcar Named Desire remains an undisputable American classic precisely due to the cruelty it exposes—and the ways we continue to excuse it.

For my money, classics can only remain classics as long as their themes are relevant and universal. The moment a play no longer connects with modern audiences, we must reconsider its place in our repertoire. Unfortunately, many of the themes in Streetcar are still very alive and well in 2026. I found no need to alter the time period or location of this production in order for us to viscerally feel its familiarity.

A quick Google search will tell you that the play’s central themes revolve around human fragility, mental illness, and the danger of desire. While traces of these ideas are certainly present, they are not what strike me most powerfully. After all—wouldn’t you feel a little “crazy” if you experienced multiple bouts of physical and sexual violence? Ask nearly 20% of women in America—the percentage who are raped or assaulted before the age of 25—how their mental health is holding up. Are reactions to ongoing trauma indicators of weakness and fragility? Is a woman’s right to sexual desire—something men have flaunted freely for centuries—inherently dangerous? If a woman is sexually attractive to a man, is the subsequent assault her fault? And if she is told that it is, if she begins to protest, scream, cry, rant, and rave—if she learns to guard herself and withhold personal information—does she then deserve to be institutionalized? Is she insane? Or is the silencing of her voice so utterly infuriating that it inevitably causes an explosion?

And what of Stanley? If a man is an American citizen, “born and bred in the greatest country in the world,” works long, grueling hours five to six days a week, pays his taxes, contributes to his community, and provides for his family—yet is still discriminated against daily for being, as Blanche labels him, a “mixed type”—wouldn’t it make sense that he is angry? If no matter what you did, you were told you were less-than, animalistic, common, primitive… wouldn’t that kind of persistent dehumanization harden into impenetrable rage?

I am not seeing fragility of the human spirit here. I am seeing the repercussions of a horrific set of circumstances born from a deeply broken world. My actors are young—between 17 and 21 years old—and they have no difficulty connecting to the themes of this play. I find that devastating, and yet I am deeply grateful that theatre gives us a way to navigate these realities together. In the making of it, we create something else—hope, connection, empathy… maybe even magic.

After all, Blanche herself tells us exactly what she’s searching for: “I don’t want realism. I want magic. Yes, yes—magic. I try to give that to people.” And perhaps that is what theatre can still offer us—not an escape from cruelty, but a shared language for confronting it, together.