Whether acknowledged or not in a polite, post-racial society, race identity is a construct. On stage a character's color is absolutely meaningful except in works that intend to work against the limitations. Then it is agreed that race does not matter. Other plays (most of what we see), of course, use "race" to enlighten or to advance their plot. "Clybourne Park", a troubled effort by Bruce Norris, is one such. Now before you get your nose out of joint, take a survey of dramatic efforts and decide which ones are REALLY colorblind.
I usually don't like "black version of" productions, i. e. plays written with only white characters in the playwright's mind that are adapted to a non-white/Black cast. Most such productions assume white European Americans to be the default race and all other colors to be sort of tributaries of the mainstream. Often the production looks and feels like a curious interpretation of the "real"play. Notable exceptions are the color re-interpretations of Greek classics. Reaching back to works that pre-date the European hegemony appears to be more successful for African-American actors. Done up in different costumes and saying different-sounding text makes being different a bit easier to accept, I think.
Not so with the current limited engagement production of "Streetcar Named Desire" by the great Tennessee Williams, directed by Emily Mann and brilliantly performed by Nicole Ari Parker and Blair Underwood. I'm sure Williams' ability to see the universal, meaningful implications of a sigh and his unrelenting courage in dissecting the workings of sexual allure is what makes the difference. Though many of Williams' characters are eccentric and peculiar, they are universal "actors", i. e. people who move through their lives in basic human ways that they display accurately and exhibit with deep, heartfelt passion/compassion. In fact, what is most always a feature of Williams' plays is that text has empathy for all of its players - even (especially) the rotten ones. If a director/adapter goes for that basic, plausible, universal thread in Williams' work, then it can be any race's play.
This production of "Streetcar Named Desire" is simply a damn good play with damn good performers in it. I heard lines I hadn't remembered from previous productions and the film. Directorial and acting choices are of an appropriate perspective -neither too big nor too timid - musical, lyrical, rough and dirty and finally very, very sad. All of the players are beautiful, but their beauty and magnetism never obscure the crackling, electric beauty of Tennessee Williams' play. This is a must see for students of the play. Without the strictures of the Hayes office, the stage versions of this classic can hit all of the play's notes. In its fullness, the audience can see Blanche as a troubled, mangled, alcoholic. Daphne Ruben-Vega as Stella is an appropriate second fiddle to Nicole Ari Parker's unsteady, skittish, secretive Blanche. Maybe she ought to have been allowed a few more watts of illumination, but its hard to upstage characters like Blanche and Stanley. In fact, I kind of realized for the first time that Stanley doesn't say much -- he's a physical presence who listens and reacts. I'm guessing this is not easy for Blair Underwood. So a lot of what he does onstage is present himself ( a very virile, sculpted self) and menace the women by walking about aggressively and bullying them into smaller spaces. In the card-playing scene he was less aggressive than I would have liked. True drunks can go nuts quickly, but I thought he didn't build his nasty and didn't get nasty enough. For me, Wood Harris's Mitch showed something less than the full range of possibilities for his character. He was more humorous than poignant, gentle giant so that an important counterpoint to Stanley is missing. In this production he is merely quieter than brutish Stanley. Unforgettable is Carmen de Lavallade and the Act Two open is lovely. It is Blanche's play, Blanche's production and Emily Mann and T.W. let her have it. Without feasting on the scenery and taking it over the top, Nicole Ari Parker serves up all of Blanche. And Blanche's last painful moment becomes particularly meaningful for the exquisitely timed gestures of Count Stovall as the doctor. All of us in my clutch of seats emitted a small gasp of pity, recognition, profound sadness and relief when Stovall offered his hand to "the more sinned against than sinning" Blanche.
