Blanche was The Story!

Dear Nina,

I ran into Billie the other day in New York. She looked divine, as always, and she told me you’ve settled in Paris, in some place called the Latin Quarter. With American girls, no less! Darling, tell me why you’d cross the ocean only to end up with your own kind again? I imagined you sipping wine with philosophers, learning to smoke elegantly, and mingling with those mysterious Parisians who say too little and mean too much.

Billie and I had a double date before I left New York. We went to the Thalia Theatre, and you won’t believe the first film they played: A Streetcar Named Desire. I’ve seen it before, of course, but this time I saw it through your eyes. You always said Blanche was a fallen angel. I used to roll my eyes at that. I adored Stanley, thought he was the very embodiment of desire. But you were right, Nina. Blanche was the story. Her fragility, her illusions, her desperate need to survive, that’s what makes her tragic, not foolish.

You once said that Blanche represents so many of us women, navigating a world that refuses to see our strength. She tried to speak beautifully, live beautifully, to make people listen. But Stanley, in all his brute power, crushed her with ease. He gets away with everything; she, with nothing. Even Stella turns away because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Still, I can’t help myself. I adore Brando’s performance. Who wouldn’t? I found a press photo of him from 1951, and I’m sending it with this letter. Consider it your lucky charm, or at least something handsome to keep in your purse.

As for me, I’ve finally unpacked my suitcases here in Hollywood. Can you believe it? I landed a job as a junior stills photographer at Paramount. It’s hardly glamorous yet, mostly long hours, endless coffee, and more cables than people, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of someone extraordinary, like Marlon Brando and Liz Taylor, in the same day. I had to blink five times before I believed my own eyes.

Oh, Nina, I miss New York. Everything feels so far away now, and yet when I think of you chasing light through Paris, I feel oddly close to you again.

Write soon, my darling adventurer. Tell me everything, about Paris, the girls, the cafés, and do tell me, is there some handsome Frenchman who’s caught your eye?

All my love,