A subtler and less bombastic companion piece to Arthur Miller's most famous play, SALESMAN is an exemplar of nonfictional material shaped and illuminated by sophisticated filmmakers who have absorbed the devices of fictional storytelling. A portrait of a group of Bible salesman as they
make their daily rounds, it was the most prominent among a group of 1960s documentaries known collectively as cinema verite. These movies were distinguished by an absence of narration and by the unprecedented degree of verisimilitude allowed them by the advent of lighter cameras, synchronized
sound equipment, and other technical innovations.
After introducing its four main characters--Charles ("The Gipper") McDevitt, James ("The Rabbit") Baker, Raymond ("The Bull") Martos, and the "star" of the film, 56-year-old Paul ("The Badger") Brennan--SALESMAN proceeds to follow them from their home base in greater Boston to a sales meeting in
Chicago and finally to the Miami area, where they are sent to test a new territory. The action of the film is divided among three alternating situations in which the men: (1) pitch their wares in the homes of leads (potential customers); (2) sit around and compare notes in various motel rooms; and
(3) attend sales conferences at which their supervisors attempt to motivate and inspire them.
Rarely has a nonfiction film given its audiences a more resonant personality than Paul Brennan. Endowed with generous portions of the wit and cynicism that seem to be the birthright of Boston Irish-Catholics, Brennan might have been played by Art Carney in a fiction film--but not nearly as well as
he is played by himself in SALESMAN. One of his favorite diversions is lapsing into wickedly satiric impersonations of naturalized Irish-Americans. In these monologues, he returns again and again to the phrase, "Me fahtha's on the fahrce--he gets a pinshun," a shibboleth that expresses both his
contempt for and envy of the security granted to civil servants but not to door-to-door drummers. The only souls in SALESMAN as sympathetic as its title character are his leads, a succession of barely lower-middle-class Catholic housewives poignantly attempting to resist the blandishments of
church-approved Bible peddlers without appearing impolite, unreasonable, or irreligious. We see these women discovering that it's tough enough trying to keep the wolf from the door without additionally having to cope with the fox inside.
Albert and David Maysles (who share authorship of the film with Charlotte Zwerin) met or talked by phone with more than 25 Bible salesmen before settling on Paul, Charlie, Jimmy, Ray, and their supervisor, Kenny Turner. In exchange for the salesmen's participation, the brothers paid them each $100
plus expenses and a contribution to the cost of the sales conference of their employer, the Mid-American Bible Company. The company's only restriction: the Maysles brothers were forbidden to film the men signing up leads at their customary Sunday-morning stations in front of churches.
The leads themselves were paid one dollar each, the legal minimum, in exchange for signed releases. The nature and degree of their collaboration in the making of the film has given rise to some criticism and curiosity: Did these people know what was going on? Any movie pretending total
fly-on-the-wall authenticity would by necessity have to be filmed with hidden cameras, which obviously was not the case here. How, then, were the house-call scenes set up? We see the salesmen introducing themselves to their leads, but never the filmmakers. David Maysles described their standard
operating procedure in an interview: "We would explain to them [the leads] ... that we're making a film about this man and his colleagues ... a human interest story about them, their work, and their lives, in motels and in different people's homes ...." The filmmakers could and probably should
have bought themselves a bit more credibility by including one of these brief interviews early in the film.
SALESMAN cost $105,000 to produce, all but $30,000 of which came out of the Maysles brothers' own pockets. After six weeks of shooting and fifteen months of editing, the picture opened to rave reviews. "I can't think of many movies which have had as much to say about American life and have said it
so well," commented Norman Mailer. One of the lone dissenters was Variety, which speculated that the film "could have a market if there are enough intellectuals around with superiority complexes." Apparently there weren't--SALESMAN did not do very well at the box office. Instead of becoming the
harbinger of a golden age of cinema verite, it proved to be closer to a swan song.
Too gritty for mass moviegoers and not didactic enough for news television, films of this kind (with the exception of Frederick Wiseman's PBS documentaries) went out of favor in the early '70s, and their practitioners were quickly reduced to accepting commissions from rock stars to film them in
concert.
Paul Brennan, who at film's end is seen in the depths of a self-confidence crisis, went on to abandon the selling of Bibles in favor of aluminum siding. Shortly after the release of SALESMAN, he wrote a letter to the Maysles brothers in which he said: "This is one part I will always be proud of.
Lead on MacBeth & tell Arthur Miller I am ready." (Profanity.) leave a comment
