transactions with faith
by
Douglas Messerli
Albert Maysles, David Maysles, and Charlotte Zwerin
(directors) Salesman / 1969
If, at moments, the Maysles’
documentary Salesman reads a bit like
a Eugene O’Neill drama, it is no accident. David Mayles described their filming
of the four Bible salesman from The Mid-American Bible Company, as potentially
just such a character study: “We were looking for salesmen who would be interesting,
who would be on the road, who would be sort of O’Neill type of characters.”
How much of the dramatic quality of their work depended upon editor
Charlotte Zwerin is unknowable. But it’s clear, if nothing else, that in the
worn-out, slightly cynical, Irish-brogue- imitating Paul Brennan they had found
their hero.
Meanwhile, Zwerin, as Daniel Eagan has argued in his essay in America’s Film Legacy, surely helped
determine their underlying theme, as she edited the travels of the Bible
salesmen through the Boston streets and into the maze of ridiculously titled
Middle Eastern streets of Opa-Locka, Florida, as a kind of intimidating contest
between the sellers, threatened on the national level with possible firing for
not coming in with enough new sales.
The longer sales pitches are utterly fascinating in how they reveal the
gullibility of the poor, Catholic parishioners they visit and the cut-throat
tactics of the salesmen, who use—like almost all-American pitchmen—faith,
family, and cultural edification to seal the deal. Many of their poor Irish
and, in Florida, Spanish-speaking “customers,” don’t even have the extra $10 a
month to pay for the “lavishly displayed” Bibles they’re hawking. But clearly
we recognize that the complete objectification the directors claim—what the
brothers described as “cinema direct” (“There’s nothing between us and the
subject”)—is impossible. Although they manage to keep the camera “out of the
picture,” so to speak, it is clearly an intimidating and influencing tool, as
some of the customers give into the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle)
intimidations, forking over money they don’t have, while others preen and
perform as amateur actors on the screen. Obviously, several of the sales would
have been made whether or not the camera were there to record it; and, what is
even more revelatory, is that, despite the camera’s presence, most of Brennan’s
customers just can’t be convinced, even if it might mean staying in the picture
or not.
Brennan is a natural charmer who, over the years, has grown into a kind
long-suffering, thick-skinned David Mamet-like figure: a man who may once have
loved his profession, but now hates the job and himself, while intentionally
mocking the very people on whose innocence—or sometimes even stupidity—he
depends. In short, he has lost his touch, at times using argumentation and
intimidation to turn the deal. “The Bull” and “the Rabbitt”—although far less
likable as cohorts—still have what it takes, white “the Badger” has apparently
lost it. Even Brennan’s call home to his wife is a listless affair, wherein the
two chat more about how fast he should drive than sharing any relevant
information. At other moments, such as his humming “If I Were a Rich Man” on
his way to fleece poor Catholic believers, Brennan appears almost as a bigot.
But then, he too, is being watched by the unforgiving camera, playing up to it,
giving the directors most of what they want—all problems that would become
apparent in their later efforts, particularly in their notable Grey Gardens, where Edith Bouvier Beale
and her daughter “Little Edie” perform with even more vigor and to better
effect.
And it’s clear in hind-site that the brothers loved “characters” far
better than situations, which their work on Marlon Brando, Truman Capote, and
the Beatles (as well as Albert’s work with Martin Scorsese on the Rolling
Stones). Yet, to say that doesn’t take away from the genuine truths the
Maysles’ films reveal, and, in Salesman particularly,
the combination of the “pure faith” expected from and sometimes even displayed
by both sellers and customers, and the chicanery, prodding, bullying tactics of
these false prophets point to the absurdist realities of the world presented in
Flannery O’Connor’s stories (see My Year
2009). The ridiculous give and take of belief—both spiritual and
commercial—is at the core of what these charlatans are all about; and, if it
takes away the hard-earned cash of their customers, it ultimately steals the
hearts and minds of these hard-working salesmen as well.
Los Angeles, May 27, 2015
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (May 2015).
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