Salesman (1969 documentary)
"Salesman" presents an archetype of America, epitomized by Brennan's face - shot in candid close-up, blank with desperation, wizened with sardonic glee, or twisted with terror and rage, it is as close to reality as cinema can get "
If you want a genuinely Millerian cinematic experience, the best way to go is to get hold of Salesman, a 1968 documentary made by Albert and David Maysles, along with Charlotte Zwerin. Though the Maysles are best known for their hippy-era music docos Monterey Pop and Gimme Shelter, as well as the opaque weirdness of Grey Gardens from 1975, Salesman stands as the movie where they really found their voice as leading American proponents of the "direct cinema" aesthetic.
From the beginning, direct cinema, as developed simultaneously in the late 50s in Canada and Europe, was a documentary movement that prized a radical ideological stance in its output; though, as it turned out, different film-makers had conflicting opinions on how openly the camera's presence should be acknowledged in their pu
rsuit of filmed truth. The Maysles were firmly in the fly-on-the-wall camp, and Salesman is a masterpiece of apparent unselfconsciousness on the part of its subjects. You get only the most fleeting glances at the camera - none of which come from its principal "characters". (Zwerin, the editor, expresses amazement on the audio commentary that the salesmen were so unaffected by the filming.)
What the Maysles and Zwerin put together, 30 years on, still appears remarkable. There are four central figures, a team selling bibles door to door in suburban New Jersey. (Each man is introduced, complete with his nickname, decades before Quentin Tarantino thought to do it.) The most Loman-esque of the crew is Paul Brennan, aka "the Badger" - he has the crumpled skin and defeated pallor of the recovering alcoholic - while "the Bull", "the Gipper" and "the Rabbit" are the supporting cast. Much play is made of the contrast between the holy trade they ply and the venal, hucksterish tactics they employ; and there's a staggeringly cold pep talk delivered by their area manager ("We eliminated a few men.... it's a question of the sour apple spoilin' the barrel".) This, in the late 60s moral ferment, is presumably what made it so telling: an indictment of the world of cheap motel rooms, half-sleeve shirts, brilliantined hair, and boxing on the TV - the kind of America the counterculture was trying to leave behind.
What the Maysles' film and Miller's play have in common is an elegiac appreciation for loss and humiliation, and the failure of grand dreams. (Weirdly, the Badger even talks moodily about unrealised plans to head off to Alaska, echoing a key motif in Death of a Salesman.) In an era when the US appears to have lost touch with its own sense of self-worth, it might be salutary for Americans to revisit both of these works and rediscover the compassion and empathy which they once held in high esteem.
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