Blue Jasmine is, in essence, what it looks like when Woody Allen writes as Tennessee Williams. Jasmine (Cate Blanchett) herself is a variation on the Blanche DuBois theme; she's a cultured pearl, a pampered Manhattanite whose world turns belly up when her husband is arrested for white-collar crimes. As she waves goodbye to her Birkin bags, beach houses, and diamonds, Jasmine experiences a psychotic break. Broke, unstable, and licking her wounds, Jasmine shelves her pride and moves in to her classless adopted sister Ginger's (Sally Hawkins) humble San Francisco apartment. Like Blanche, Jasmine is a woman who remains haunted by the traces of her former self. She's still pretty, still gives off an aura of taste and wealth, and can't shake the immediate distaste she has for most of what she sees as Ginger's chosen lifestyle. So she calms her frayed nerves in glass after glass of Stoli, hands shaking as she struggles to convince herself that her life in the 1% will somehow go on. Of course, Blue Jasmine isn't a straight adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire, more of a loose working with time tested material. Allen's version is very much of the here and now, a cold sweat instead of a humid, murky bit of Southern Gothic. The sexual hang-ups and repression of the mid-20th century exchanged for a recession-era portrait of a woman who tried to look the other way - like so many politico trophy wives and Wall Street spouses before her.