Glengarry Glen Ross
The Gate, Dublin ****
There are two external factors that make Glengarry Glen Ross a brilliant piece of American theatre. The first is that this account of four competing real-estate agents was written during the 1980s, when Ronald Reagan was president, the recession had passed and, as Gordon Gekko put it, greed was good. The second is that David Mamet wrote it. He is an accomplished wordsmith, albeit more profane than the average.
That a style of dialogue has been coined in the playwright’s honour — Mamet speak — needs no more explanation than this Pulitzer-winning play. These salesmen talk for a living and inflection is paramount. Sentences trail off, interjections are handled like fight sequences, and a rhythmic refrain of obscenities builds like a departing train.
Four employees at a Chicago estate agency are competing for the best “leads”, information on people in a position to buy property, in order to win a sales competition and keep their job. As Moss (Denis Conway) puts it: “Somebody wins the Cadillac this month. PS, two guys get f*****.” The final man, who will place between the winner and losers, will remain employed and get a set of knives.
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The first act unfolds in a bar decorated with flashy red curtains and a Buddha enshrined with tacky trinkets — a nice set reference to the men’s value system. Shelley Levene (Owen Roe) is a salesman begging Williamson (John Cronin), the office manager, for fresh, workable leads. Levene lives in a hotel and sweats when he talks. His suit is ill-fitting — a subtle note from designer Joan Bergin — and his quick talking, firing off five sentences at once, betrays his desperation.
The next interaction is between Moss and Aaronow (Barry McGovern). Moss talks of robbing the office and selling the leads to a competitor. As is always the case with Mamet speak, the characters must listen carefully to understand what is really being said.
“Are you actually talking about this, or are we just...” asks Aaronow.
“No, we’re just...” replies Moss.
“We’re just ‘talking’ about it.”
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“We’re just speaking about it. As an idea.”
The first act’s final duologue involves Ricky Roma (Reg Rogers), the firm’s ablest estate agent, convincing an unsuspecting drinker at the bar (Peter Hanly) to buy property in Florida. These salesmen build themselves up when they converse together, but the real magic happens when handling a client. Like children told to go to bed, there’s always one more thing; if they can keep the customer distracted long enough, maybe he’ll forget that he wanted to cancel the deal. They talk circles around their prey, who sign just to stop the head spin.
This sharp play is in the confident hands of Doug Hughes, an American director, at a theatre that has long shown a prowess with Mamet. Where the buck really stops for Glengarry Glen Ross is with the cast, who must get their tongues around the language and return it to the everyday speak from which it came. With a harshness that reflects the era, divides are quickly established between winners and losers, and the best two-hander comes from a stellar Rogers and Roe.
Rogers, an actor usually found around Broadway and with a few similarities to Al Pacino, who played Roma in James Foley’s 1992 movie adaptation, is perfectly oversized on stage. His crisp enunciation is as slippery as his oiled back hair; any panic is an undercurrent. Roe, an actor with an ear for Mamet speak, plays the pathetic yin to Rogers’s commanding yang. He ties his character into such knots of anxiety that an onstage heart attack is expected. This is an overtly masculine world. The estate agents feed off the adrenalin and stress of a high-powered chase, sustaining themselves with regular drinking, omnipresent profanities and casual racism. Though it will likely end in an early grave, the possibility of success keeps them chasing. These could be stockbrokers, politicians, certain types of journalist. Once in the middle of it, they see nothing else.
Hanly’s dainty Irish appearance is conspicuous against Rogers’s Italian features, instantly establishing him as a pawn in the real-estate game. Cronin holds his own against an older, more established cast, while McGovern’s accent occasionally strays into mobster territory. Neil Patel’s sets are decisive, although it’s a pity an interval was necessary to move from the bar to office scene of the second act. Mamet’s clipped and rambling sentences are at their best when on a roll.
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The men get leads, so they can go for sits. If one kicks out then, hey, bad luck runs in streaks. With their distinct way of expressing it, Mamet’s estate agents are selling an act. Audiences should snap it up.