The chain of command is is ever changing in the real estate sales office ostensibly headed by some stifled, napoleon-complexed boss. The real power that any of these salesmen worship lies with contracts, and whoever thinks he has the tallest stack won’t hesitate to tell the “boss” to go fuck himself. And if the cock-sucker doesn’t like what a real man has to say? Fuck him. The only real boss is money: money is ethics, money is aesthetics, and religion is the thousand-faced dance that is performed to obtain it.
Bipolar moods swings and and schizophrenic conversations prevail between the dining table of an ironically serene Japanese restaurant and the spartan sales office as sweet- talk buddy buddy ‘Here’s what I’m gonna do for you,’ and ‘Hey, I’m a good guy, you know me’ gives way to ‘Hey! Fuck you!’ all in the name of getting leads or signing on the dotted line. Tightly delivered by fully-developed characters that go from standing on top of the world to the pits of hell in the blink of an eye, these men aren’t just soliciting deals from buyers, but forging overlaid and often contradictory alliances among themselves; beaming brotherly love that will melt your heart and always poised to spit over the precipice that any one of them may fall over based on their own lack of wit.
What could be more cathartic than someone believing you’ve got a great deal for them and buying into it? The ultimate payoffs happen only when you believe it yourself. The name of the game? How nimbly you can navigate the phrenetic path or your own capricious identity; treading hard to showcase your golden character in moving a deal forward, and tiptoeing elusively among smoke and mirrors to keep it from moving back. “What’s that you say? I don’t understand? Did I say that? Did…I…say that?”
In fact, that might not only be the key to success in the world of Glengarry Glenn Ross, but the world in general. I mean: aren’t we all trying to sell something? Ourselves? Our legitimacy? Our attractiveness, intrigue, experience, talent? Or maybe with some it’s innocence, confusion, apathy, laissez-faire? And how much easier is that if we convince ourselves that it’s true? Is that the only difference between honesty and dishonesty— whether or not we believe our own pitch?
Anthony Abraira & Alphie Hyorth in Glengarry Glen RossYou all know the storyline of Glengarry Glen Ross, right? I don’t need to bore an intelligent and cultured crowd like you with all this redundancy. A bunch of sleazy salesmen ripping people off and stabbing each other in the back, right? A window into a sector of a business and lifestyle gone corrupt? Fun times for those of us who know better to enjoy a peep show of a dog-eat-dog world. I say not.
Listen, here’s the deal, between you and me—and this is something I would only take the time to mention to a crowd I know can savor a bit of metaphor and nuance—there’s really a powerful and lasting takeaway for those who make it out to this production—and you’re not going to find it anywhere else. This is far more than just entertainment.
If you’re dialed in enough to be surfing XOAVL, then I can tell you have a taste for what’s really going down on the streets and are fully able to get the punch that this production delivers to the mediocre fluff that— you and me both—are so weary of.
Check it: Under the vaulted roof of Asheville’s Masonic Temple, behind the live props of men selling real estate, is a timeless existential commentary that can only be conveyed with such propensity through live theatre. Sublime? Like your best wet dream. Emotive? Tears. Rage. Laughter. Engaging? Brother, these guys don’t miss a fucking beat. This is the fucking play of the year, sister. Are you ready to call your friends and go?…No? Well, fuck you! And enjoy soaking up your fucking pleb-ass jollies on prime time TV, ‘cause you ain’t ready for this shit.