Glengarry Glenross: The Death of More Salesmen

Glengarry Glenross—a film based on a play by David Mamet, one that won the Pulitzer Prize—tells the story of real estate salesmen and the boss who supervises them at Premiere Properties. Times have grown hard; properties are not selling. Employers blame their salesclerks; the clerks blame their leads.

To fix the problem, management has introduced two new business initiatives. First, they have purchased a new set of leads from Glengarry Glenross properties. However, before they put these "good leads" into the hands of their sales team, they want some signs of assurance. For this reason, their second step is to launch a sales contest: the winner will get a Cadillac, the runner-up will get a set of cheap steak knives, and the others will get the axe. The problem for these salesmen, aside from the prospect of placing third, is that the contest requires them to use the old Rancho Rio leads. The duress that follows turns them into cornered rats.

This film portrays men who feel no need to, as Wendell Berry advises, "stand by words." In their world, everything is permitted in the name of closing a sale, and these creatures take full advantage of such leniency. They lie to customers, and in ways that sound familiar. "Our computer has chosen you of all the customers who have requested information about our properties." Or: "I'm here overnight and have to go home tomorrow. But Danny, I know you're serious, and because of that I'm going to shove my appointments around." Trying to pressure customers into quick decisions on bad products, they also cheat their clients. Indeed, there is no hero to admire here.

In spite of this lack, Glengarry still has many serious virtues. For one thing, its cast amounts to one of the best ever assembled; it includes Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, Ed Harris, Kevin Spacey, Alan Arkin, Jonathan Price, and Alec Baldwin. Their performances, and in particular their ability to handle dialogue—especially dialogue at this level, where a single sentences demands a range of emotions—confirm, and in some cases even further, the legendary talents of these actors. By furthering I am thinking specifically of Jack Lemmon, who plays Shelley "The Machine" Levene. Roger Ebert has called his character as memorable as Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman, and rightly so. While each salesman in Glengarry has the capacity to shift from "chatting with the guys" to "working a client," no one executes this switch with more ease and sliminess than Lemmon. His voice alone has been museumed in my ear.

And then there is this dialogue, which is a virtue in itself. There is a repetitiveness to it, one that reinforces the catch-22 in which these men find themselves. Dave Moss, for example, who is played by Ed Harris, cannot break free from the leads. He simply goes on and on like this: "He's got the leads, he's got the good leads…We've got to go to them to get the leads…It's the leads, the whole thing is the leads."

At the end of the movie, topics discussed at the beginning return to conversation, turning this repetition into circularity. The effect brings hell to earth, an effect Mamet aims to achieve. As each character cusses the other into isolation, the irony is that all of them are just as deceived as their customers. The elusive promise of prosperity—it's in the titles given to their properties. Glengarry Glenross. Rancho Rio. Exoticness: tucked within the alliteration of these labels, it's the very vapor for which salesman and customer give away their lives.

Given the cause of the current economic crisis, this movie-play from the early '90s still has a pertinent warning to offer. We may think we're different than these money-grubbing salesmen, but we're just as vulnerable to the deceptive allure of prosperity.

An Author with a Soul: Marilynne Robinson and Home

"Weary or bitter or bewildered as we may be, God is faithful. He lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home."

For those of you who have sampled the field of contemporary literature, only to discover mouthful after mouthful of postmodern insincerity, or for those of you in search of a rewarding new read, permit me a moment to introduce you to Marilynne Robinson—particularly, to her latest novel, Home.

Home marks her third novel in a span of 27 years, a detail that could lead one to mistakenly describe her career as long on duration and short on return. The quality of that return, however, suggests something different. Her first novel, Housekeeping, which considers the relationships between mothers and daughters, appeared in 1980 and won the Pen/Hemingway award. Gilead, her second novel, arrived in 2004, over two decades later, but it soon proved worthy of the wait. For this novel, a meditation on the relationships between fathers and sons, Robinson earned the Pulitzer prize. Robinson may not publish often—her everyday occupation as a creative writing professor at the University of Iowa no doubt impedes her ability to—but when she does, it counts.

As her previous novels attest, Robinson has a preoccupation with the family, and her newest novel renews it. Home returns to terrain set forth in Gilead—as in Gilead, Iowa—which tells the story of John Ames, the town's Congregationalist minister, and his family line; in her newest tale, which is set in the same place and time, the 1950s, she presents an account about the family of Robert Boughton, the former Presbyterian minister and Ames' best friend.

Incidentally, her portrayal of these clergymen is anything but cynical. Robinson is a professing Christian, with a respect for mystery and theology uncommon to her profession. In The Death of Adam, an exceptional collection of essays she published in 1998, Robinson dares to unpack Darwin, defend Bonhoeffer, dignify Calvin, and extol the eighth Psalm. In Gilead and Home, she performs a similar act of ennoblement: she invests the man of God with a depth of dignity he has not received in serious literature for nearly a century and a half. Father Mapple, in an early chapter of Moby Dick, which was published in 1851, is a minister who comes to mind as one given a mostly serious representation. But as early as Middlemarch, which was published between 1871 and 1872, and which is far from, but not unaffected by, the pessimism that was about to follow in the wake of Darwin, a new kind of religious figure begins to emerge in the character of Mr. Farebrother. In contrast, with Ames and Boughton, Robinson has introduced men gifted with both a substantial doctrine and a gracious disposition. In light of these virtues, Farebrother comes up short; he is void the former principle, while Mr. Tyke, his antithesis, lacks the latter. And in spite of Robinson's admiration for them, she is not blind to their faults; by bringing them to light, she manages to show that a pastor may still be faithful in his fallenness.

Home, then, tells the story of Boughton's lone reprobate son who, after an absence of 20 years, comes home. That man is Jack Boughton, the proverbial "black sheep" of his family. Jack spent his childhood getting into trouble, trouble that grew in severity as he grew in age. His private misdemeanors have grown into public ones: stealing a beloved baseball glove from Ames turned into stealing the hunting rifle of the mayor's son. And his personal foibles have spawned civic affronts: his propensity for alcohol led to the impregnation of a local high-schooler; on top of that, the baby girl that follows died during his 20-year disappearance.

The life he has lived prior to his return has exhausted, but not quite defeated, the ability of his family to forgive. Glory, the youngest Boughton, who has come home to care for their father, describes its effect on him: "She had heard her father say, in the depths of his grief, 'Some things are indefensible.' And it was as if he thought a great gulf had opened, Jack on the far side of it, beyond rescue or comfort. She felt that she could not allow that to be true, especially since it was her father who seemed to be in hell. He had come to the last inch of his power to forgive, and there was Jack, still far beyond his reach. So he stood at the verge of despair ... despite every prayer and text old Ames could muster." Loving Jack bears a resemblance to loving the Israel of the Old Testament: little but pain ever comes in return. And, unlike Israel's Father, Old Boughton is only human.

In his own homecoming, Jack is no "prodigal." Though financial and emotional destitution have led him home, like they do the young man in the gospel parable, Jack has yet to experience a bankruptcy of intellect. As Old Boughton puts it, Jack has never "felt at home in the house where he was born," an alienation which includes the faith of his father. Making this outsiderness more specific, Jack says, "It is possible to know the great truths without feeling the truth of them. That's where the problem lies. In my case." But his problem grows out of soil far deeper than the emotions. Though when he speaks with Ames and his father he tends to toy with the idea, making his seriousness about it seem flippant, Jack seems to believe himself "an instance of predestination." As he describes it in one of his more serious moments, "Somehow I have never felt that grace was intended for me, particularly" (271). Jack believes himself consigned to his carnal nature. In Home, and especially in the character of Jack Boughton, Robinson seems to be asking one of the fundamental questions about human nature—namely, can people change?

Her answer—which I will not spoil for you—is both complex and hopeful. Home is a quiet novel, one that proceeds through an abundance of conversation. It is full of thoughtful meditations, on the home, on the family, on prayer, on the soul. I recommend all the books mentioned previously, but this one in particular, because it shows a family trying to love its own, when loving them is anything but easy. I leave you with one of my favorite reflections in it, one on prayer: "Prayer is a discipline in truthfulness, in honesty … you open up your thoughts, and then you can get a clear look at them. No point trying to hide anything."