Gillian Anderson and Ben Foster in A Streetcar Named Desire. Production photo by Johan Persson

Australian director Benedict Andrews burst onto London's theatre scene two years ago with his avant garde production of Chekhov's three sisters - there was a mound of mud and a slowly disappearing stage made up of small square tables. It divided opinion - I loved it flaws and all - so some may approach his production of a Streetcar Named Desire with trepidation.

There is no mud this time but Stella (Vanessa Kirby) and Stanley's (Ben Foster) two room apartment is positioned on a revolve in the centre of the auditorium. As the play begins so does the revolve giving you an ever changing view of the actors.

You have to work to follow the action as sometimes parts of the set slowly obscure what is going on - there are no best seats - but the effect is like emotional voyeurism. The sense of being 'an audience' is heightened but an audience that shouldn't really be watching this domestic drama unfold, you are a rubber-necker passing an emotional car wreck.

It can feel frustrating to begin with as you miss some of the close ups (intrigued by how this is going to be filmed for NT Live) but the performances punch through and that is the power of this play. It is muscular and tense, dripping in emotions and desires both complex and base. From Stanley's first up/down assessment of Blanche's (Gillian Anderson) assets to Stella's raw and guttural sobs at the end.

Anderson's Blanche is trapped in world which is a mixture of her past life and her own fantasy. Her tailored and showy clothes and manners at odds with the urban, earthy Kowalski home where she has sought sanctuary. She regresses as the play progresses to a time of her youth, of flouncy prom dresses and tiaras. In some ways reminded it me of the character Miss Haversham in Charles Dickens' Great Expectations (a part she has played on screen opposite Kirby as Estella) a brittle and fragile soul destroyed by one devastating act.