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Gudkov for reference cover of the first Soviet edition of Williams plays 1967

Glasnost Menagerie

Tennessee Williams’s Plays Infiltrate the USSR

Even while denigrating his work, Soviet reviewers set the stage for Tennessee Williams’s popularity in Russia.

By Maxim M. Gudkov, guest contributor

March 25, 2026

Despite his having identified himself as a socialist in the 1930s, and despite his critiques of capitalism in iconic plays such as The Glass Menagerie (1944) and A Streetcar Named Desire (1947), Tennessee Williams was initially denounced by Soviet critics as an apologist for the bourgeois, a playwright whose works contaminated the stage. In contrast, 21st-century Russian scholarly and popular audiences view his works as classics of United States and world theater. In fact, Williams has for several decades been one of the most popular US authors in Russia, where productions of his plays have been staged almost continually since the 1970s.

Illustration of the playwright from a Tennessee Williams Festival poster, by Kenneth Harrison, 2000.

The history of Williams in Soviet criticism begins well before the history of Williams plays on the Soviet stage. After the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia as a result of the October Revolution of 1917, a new culture and art had emerged, shaped by Marxist-Leninist theories of class struggle, the nationalization of private property, and atheism. In 1934, the government banned all forms of artistic expression other than socialist realism. Through the efforts of Stalin’s cultural policy, the Soviet theater’s wide range of dramatic techniques and approaches was reduced to one offering, which was unified and obligatory for all Soviet theaters. All other approaches, regardless of the author’s poetics, were lumped together as formalism and condemned.

While The Glass Menagerie and A Streetcar Named Desire were embraced around the world almost immediately, the USSR was hostile ground for foreign playwrights, even those whose works, like Williams’s, were ripe for Marxist interpretation. The two groundbreaking plays’ entry into major US theaters coincided with the onset of the Cold War, at which point Soviet theater was not only excluding foreign plays but beginning to strictly regulate domestic works as well. Soviet stages were dominated by new plays that condemned “groveling before the West” and denounced American imperialism.

The prominent Soviet writer Konstantin Simonov’s description of what he saw in New York theaters on an overseas trip in 1946 serves as an example of the Stalinist party line. His account, entitled “The Power of Money,” reports:

I saw more than a dozen performances in New York. [. . .] The absurd power of money has destroyed the life and soul in art, turning it into a production where the subject of exploitation is the actors, and the goal is profit. [. . .] The system of life in the American theater is a system that is utterly alien to art and makes a man of art a slave to the dollar.

Svetlana Nemolyaeva (Blanche) on the cover of the program for Andrey Goncharov’s production of "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Editions and productions of Williams’s plays may have been long in coming to the USSR, but awareness of the works and their acclaim was not. The playwright’s name appears for the first time in Soviet criticism in October 1947, in the short space between the success of The Glass Menagerie and the explosive debut of Streetcar.

The three earliest critical pieces belong to the authoritative critic and translator Mikhail Morozov (1897–1952), considered one of the founders of Soviet-era Shakespeare studies. Like nearly all Soviet critics of the 1940s through the 1960s, Morozov did not see Western productions or film adaptations of the Williams plays he analyzed but instead judged the plays by the texts themselves, which he and other critics—those who could read English—managed to acquire from Western sources.

In 1947 in the newspaper Soviet Art, Morozov published a long article about contemporary North American drama titled “At the Mercy of the Dollar,” which presented The Glass Menagerie as an example of the failings of US drama writ large.

Unbearable working conditions have turned the hero of [The Glass Menagerie], a petty American employee, into a kind of automaton, a robot. In the evenings, he regularly goes to the movies, reveling in adventure films like a drug. [. . .T]he suffering of the “little man” serves as a kind of attraction. . . “I serve you the truth in a pleasant robe of illusions,” says Williams. From this “pleasant robe” a disgusting smell of decay emanates.

Lobby card for "The Glass Menagerie," 1950.
Film still from "The Glass Menagerie," 1950.

Morozov was writing at a time when the government and many Soviet audience members expected straightforward realism in the look, sound, and feel of a performance. In contrast to many Western viewers, Morozov immediately noted The Glass Menagerie’s conscious choice to eschew the naturalistic representation of reality—what Williams’s production notes explicitly dismiss as “the straight realistic play with its genuine Frigidaire and authentic ice-cubes, its characters who speak exactly as its audience speaks,” which “corresponds to the academic landscape and has the same virtue of a photographic likeness.” The divergence from realism appeared to anger Morozov. In an article titled "Two Cultures," he writes:

Like freakish plants, images and text appear on the screen continuously (a mix of theater and cinema, as it’s known, a form that is popular in the US), simultaneously nerve-wracking and spicy, as well as the “harsh” music of foxtrots and tango accompanying the performance. A pale, sick girl lies on the couch. And then blue roses appear on the screen. There is something deeply objectionable in this cheap aestheticism, imbued with sexuality . . . No, this play doesn’t dispel the gloom in the “dark room”! On the contrary, many “Toms” in the hall will helplessly throw up their hands: “All the same, they think our anxiety is meaningless and pointless.”

In 1948, Morozov published "The Cult of Brut Force," an article about A Streetcar Named Desire in Soviet Art. For all his objections, Morozov’s opinion of Stanley would have been (and still is) shared by many, and his understanding of the choices Stella and Blanche represent in Williams’s play is persuasive:

The old America is dying, and a “new man” is taking control—this is the main theme of the play. This “new man” is depicted in the image of a rude, cruel young man named Stan, who does not refrain from the dirtiest actions. According to the playwright’s concept, his character has “primitive force.” The heroine of the play, Stella, cannot resist this force. [. . .] Stella’s sister, Blanche, futilely seeks salvation from the unbearable reality in “moral foundations of the past.” These foundations are illusory. Blanche, seized with despair, indulges in debauchery and drunkenness, and, in the end, goes crazy. So, according to Williams, there is no way out, you either have to submit to the “primitive force,” like Stella, or go crazy, like Blanche.

Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski in Elia Kazan's film adaptation of "A Streetcar Named Desire," 1951.
Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski in Elia Kazan's film adaptation of "A Streetcar Named Desire," 1951.
Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski in Elia Kazan's film adaptation of "A Streetcar Named Desire," 1951.

With the onset of the Khrushchev thaw in the late 1950s and early ’60s, the tone of publications dedicated to Williams began to change noticeably. The literary critic and American studies specialist Raisa Orlova (1918–1989), a pioneer in the USSR’s reevaluation of modern American literature, would later describe herself as having done everything possible to make his works known in the USSR. Writing with her husband, the literary critic Lev Kopelev, in 1960, she defended Williams’s particular brand of realism:

Williams’s dramaturgy is separated from the soullessness of [“decadent” Western modernist playwrights] by genuine benevolence; the stubborn search for kind, gentle “spiritual” heroes; and those realistic means of image creation that are inherent even in his most “difficult” plays that are poisoned by modernist influences.

Even the less realistic, more experimental elements in the plays were gaining traction. The Soviet literary critic Georgy Zlobin, creator of the first and most popular Russian-language translation of The Glass Menagerie (1967), described as “romantic” the plays’ non-realistic elements, which Morozov had decried as illusory and phony.

In 1967, the first Russian-language collection of Williams’s plays—The Glass Menagerie and Nine Other Plays, compiled by Vladich Nedelin (1924–1986), who also translated Streetcar—was published in Moscow, finally making the playwright’s works broadly accessible to Soviet readers.

Dust jacket on the first USSR edition of Williams’s plays, Iskusstvo, 1967.

Nedelin’s afterword to his collection shows the degree to which opinions of Williams had shifted. Describing Streetcar as “a drama of human intolerance,” he wrote:

[W]e begin to understand what seemed so difficult to explain and mysterious to many critics—why the author does not take sides in the dispute between Blanche and Stanley, as if recognizing: both are right and equally wrong [. . .]. The weakest must perish, but the strongest does not win: both inevitably degenerate in intolerance. Blanche ends up insane. Stanley degenerates into an animalistic state. [. . .] You cannot help but be sad for them, Williams claims. [. . . I]n Williams’s plays, a person confronts the cruelty, violence, nightmares, and madness of modern reality [. . .], he confronts all of this, saving his dignity and not submitting—even when he becomes a victim, even when the madness of this world defeats him. Most of Williams’s plays capture the drama of this confrontation.

After the publication of Nedelin’s collection, Williams’s plays began to be staged in the provinces. Not everyone welcomed the productions, and various party officials and critics would voice their disapproval for years, but eventually Moscow’s Mayakovsky Theater undertook the first major production of Streetcar, which debuted in 1970, directed by the noted Soviet director Andrey Goncharov. Though Blanche’s final descent into madness was replaced with a happy ending in which Mitch saves Blanche, the production retained the play’s “primitive force.” For all its rudeness, cruelty, debauchery, and Western decadence, the production would run for more than seven hundred performances over more than two decades.

Nemolyaeva as Blanche
Armenian actor Armen Dzhigarkhanyan as Stanley
Dzhigarkhanyan (Stanley), Nemolyaeva (Blanche), and Svetlana Mizeri (Stella)

Interestingly, Soviet critics picked up perhaps earlier than others on the plays’ divergences from the realism and naturalism for which Williams was often celebrated in the West. In doing so, the Soviet reviewers, even while denigrating his work, positioned Williams as a playwright worthy of note and, consciously or not, paved the way for his eventual popular success on Russian-language stages.

TWAR cover

Stage and film actor Maxim M. Gudkov teaches acting at St. Petersburg State University, where he has directed productions of The Glass Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, Suddenly Last Summer, and Orpheus Descending, among other plays. A scholar of US theater and of US-Russian stage relations, he is author of more than eighty academic articles. All Russian translations are the authors.

Adapted excerpt from “Tennessee Williams in Soviet Criticism: A Cold War–Era Reversal of Fortune,” in the Tennessee Williams Annual Review, vol. 24 (2026)

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