By Kevin D. Williamson
Sunday, July 30, 2017
A few years ago in New York, Al Pacino starred in a
revival of David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen
Ross, and the casting was poignant: In 1992, a much younger and more
vigorous Pacino had played the role of hotshot salesman Ricky Roma in the film
adaptation of the play; in the Broadway revival, a 72-year-old Pacino played
the broken-down has-been Shelley Levene.
Glengarry Glen Ross
is the Macbeth of real estate, full
of great, blistering lines and soliloquies so liberally peppered with profanity
that the original cast had nicknamed the show “Death of a F***ing Salesman.”
But a few of those attending the New York revival left disappointed. For a
certain type of young man, the star of Glengarry
Glen Ross is a character called Blake, played in the film by Alec Baldwin.
We know that his name is “Blake” only from the credits; asked his name by one
of the other salesmen, he answers: “What’s my name? F*** you. That’s my name.”
In the film, Blake sets things in motion by delivering a motivational speech
and announcing a sales competition: “First prize is a Cadillac Eldorado. Second
prize? A set of steak knives. Third prize is, you’re fired. Get the picture?”
He berates the salesmen in terms both financial — “My watch cost more than your
car!” — and sexual. Their problem, in Blake’s telling, isn’t that they’ve had a
run of bad luck or bad sales leads — or that the real estate they’re trying to
sell is crap — it is that they aren’t real men.
The leads are weak? You’re weak. .
. . Your name is “you’re wanting,” and you can’t play the man’s game. You can’t
close them? Then tell your wife your troubles, because only one thing counts in
this world: Get them to sign on the line which is dotted. Got that, you f***ing
f*****s?
A few young men waiting to see the show had been quoting
Blake’s speech to one another. For them, and for a number of men who imagine
themselves to be hard-hitting competitors (I’ve never met a woman of whom this
is true), Blake’s speech is practically a creed. It’s one of those things that
some guys memorize. But Blake does not appear in the play, the scene having
been written specifically for the film and specifically for Alec Baldwin, a sop
to investors who feared that the film would not be profitable and wanted an
additional jolt of star power to enliven it.
That’s some fine irony: Blake’s paean to salesmanship was
written to satisfy salesmen who did not quite buy David Mamet’s original pitch.
The play is if anything darker and more terrifying without Blake, leaving the
poor feckless salesmen at the mercy of a faceless malevolence offstage rather
than some regular jerk in a BMW. But a few finance bros went home disappointed
that they did not get the chance to sing along, as it were, with their favorite
hymn.
These guys don’t want to see Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross. What they want is
to be Blake. They want to swagger, to
curse, to insult, and to exercise power over men, exercising power over men
being the classical means to the end of exercising power over women, which is
of course what this, and nine-tenths of everything else in human affairs, is
about. Blake is a specimen of that famous creature, the “alpha male,” and
establishing and advertising one’s alpha creds is an obsession for some
sexually unhappy contemporary men. There is a whole weird little ecosystem of
websites (some of them very amusing) and pickup-artist manuals offering men
tips on how to be more alpha, more dominant, more commanding, a literature that
performs roughly the same function in the lives of these men that Cosmopolitan sex tips play in the lives
of insecure women. Of course this advice ends up producing cartoonish, ridiculous
behavior. If you’re wondering where Anthony Scaramucci learned to talk and
behave like such a Scaramuccia,
ask him how many times he’s seen Glengarry
Glen Ross.
What’s notable about the advice offered to young men
aspiring to be “alpha males” is that it is consistent with the classic
salesmanship advice offered by the real-world versions of Blake in a hundred
thousand business-inspiration books (Og Mandino’s The Greatest Salesman in the World is the classic of the genre) and
self-help tomes, summarized in an old Alcoholics Anonymous slogan: “Fake it
’til you make it.” For the pick-up artists, the idea is that simply acting in
social situations as though one were confident, successful, and naturally
masterful is a pretty good substitute for being those things. Never mind the
advice of Cicero (esse quam videri,
be rather than seem) or Rush
— just go around acting like Blake and people will treat you like Blake.
If that sounds preposterous, remind yourself who the
president of the United States of America is.
Trump is the political version of a pickup artist, and
Republicans — and America — went to bed with him convinced that he was
something other than what he is. Trump inherited his fortune but describes
himself as though he were a self-made man.
He has had a middling career in real estate and a poor
one as a hotelier and casino operator but convinced people he is a titan of
industry. He has never managed a large, complex corporate enterprise, but he
did play an executive on a reality show. He presents himself as a confident
ladies’ man but is so insecure that he invented an imaginary friend to lie to
the New York press about his love life and is now married to a woman who is
open and blasé about the fact that she married him for his money. He fixates on
certain words (“negotiator”) and certain classes of words (mainly adjectives
and adverbs, “bigly,” “major,” “world-class,” “top,” and superlatives), but he
isn’t much of a negotiator, manager, or leader. He cannot negotiate a
health-care deal among members of a party desperate for one, can’t manage his
own factionalized and leak-ridden White House, and cannot lead a political
movement that aspires to anything greater than the service of his own pathetic
vanity.
He wants to be John Wayne, but what he is is “Woody Allen
without the humor.” Peggy Noonan, to whom we owe that observation, has his
number: He is soft, weak, whimpering, and petulant. He isn’t smart enough to do
the job and isn’t man enough to own up to the fact. For all his gold-plated
toilets, he is at heart that middling junior salesman watching Glengarry Glen Ross and thinking to
himself: “That’s the man I want to be.” How many times do you imagine he has
stood in front of a mirror trying to project like Alec Baldwin? Unfortunately
for the president, it’s Baldwin who does the good imitation of Trump, not the
other way around.
Hence the cartoon tough-guy act. Scaramucci’s star didn’t
fade when he gave that batty and profane interview in which he reimagined Steve
Bannon as a kind of autoerotic yogi. That’s Scaramucci’s best impersonation of
the sort of man the president of these United States, God help us, aspires to
be.
But he isn’t that guy. He isn’t Blake. He’s poor sad old
Shelley Levene, who cannot close the deal, who spends his nights whining about
the unfairness of it all.
So, listen up, Team Trump: “Put that coffee down. Coffee
is for closers only.”
Got that?
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