James Foley makes a gripping drama from David Mamet’s salesmen and their exhausting talk. Jack Lemmon makes their desperation painful to watch, though the script sometimes repeats what the actors have already made clear.
James Foley’s Glengarry Glen Ross is a gripping, often painfully funny film about men who cannot stop selling, even to one another. David Mamet’s real-estate salesmen bring the same pressure to conversations with colleagues that they bring to their work, measuring every exchange for signs of weakness. That could become exhausting, and occasionally does. What makes it worth the punishment is the care with which the actors distinguish one man’s fear from another’s, even when they appear to be shouting much the same thing.
Jack Lemmon’s Shelley Levene gives that fear its most painful form. He makes the effort of sounding persuasive apparent in the repeated phrases, as though saying something again might recover the confidence that failed him the first time. We winced at his attempts to sound in command, because Lemmon keeps making the desperation audible beneath them. He also allows us to understand why Levene might exhaust everyone around him. We do not have to find the man endearing to care about his distress.
Al Pacino’s Ricky Roma is more assured, and the ease with which Pacino handles Mamet’s elaborate talk makes that assurance faintly alarming. We can understand why somebody might keep listening against their better judgement. Ed Harris makes Dave Moss’s anger feel practised, while Alan Arkin gives George Aaronow a hesitancy that changes the pace around him. Kevin Spacey’s John Williamson brings a useful chill to the exchanges. Alec Baldwin’s Blake supplies blunt intimidation in a brief appearance.
Foley’s close-ups are crucial, giving the listeners as much of our attention as the speakers. Cinematographer Juan Ruiz Anchía keeps the men feeling boxed in, so the images never offer much relief from their arguments. Jane Musky’s dark, cramped production design gives the office a plausible everyday unpleasantness. It feels like somewhere these men have spent too much of their lives.
Howard E. Smith’s editing makes it possible to follow who has the advantage as an exchange becomes more aggressive. The repetitions remain uncomfortable, but we are not left wondering why a conversation matters to the people having it. James Newton Howard’s music helps sustain the unease without competing with the dialogue for our attention. That restraint works here, because the actors supply so many changes of pace and emphasis themselves.
Mamet does sometimes press the misery harder than necessary, repeating a point that a performance has already made. The consensus is cooler than we are, with objections to that insistence and to how little the film gains by leaving the stage. We think the latter complaint undervalues Foley’s close-ups. For a chamber drama, watching someone absorb a remark before deciding how to answer is enough to justify bringing the camera closer.
These are demanding companions for 100 minutes, and the profanity can be as tiring as the pressure. Give the film your full attention, since a hesitation here matters as much as an insult. Choose an evening when work has treated you kindly.
