Glengarry Glen Ross

Kieran Culkin and Bob Odenkirk

I lost track of the number of times I thought, “It was a different time,” while watching Glengarry Glen Ross. The latest revival of David Mamet’s satire of salesmen, currently in performances at the Palace Theatre, is showing its age – through its profanity-ridden, rapid-fire monologues – and enduring appeal – also through those profanity-ridden, rapid-fire monologues. Whether that is a good thing or not is up to the audience member.

In the third revival since its 1984 Broadway premiere, Mamet’s portrait of desperate salesmen at a Chicago real estate firm has been established as a star vehicle for both leading men and character actors. Liev Schrieber starred as the ruthless Ricky Roma in the 2005 revival, followed by Bobby Canavale in 2012. The 2012 revival also featured Al Pacino, who played Ricky in the 1992 film, as Shelly Levine. This current production, directed by Patrick Marber, features comedian Bill Burr and Bob Odenkirk in their Broadway debuts and Succession star and Oscar winner Kieran Culkin as Ricky Roma.

That director and that cast should spell the formula to onstage success. But this Glengarry falls flat, failing to register as a gleeful portrait of men’s fatal flaws, instead registering as a glimpse into the past that feels both unnecessary and unwanted.

A brisk two-act clocking in at approximately 100 minutes, the play follows a group of men employed at a Chicago real estate firm. The first act establishes their various complaints about their place of employment. There’s Shelly “The Machine” Levene (Odenkirk), past his prime and struggling to stay relevant, attempting to bribe John Williamson (Donald Webber Jr.), for sale leads. Dave Moss (Burr), unapologetic and foul mouthed, is fed up with office politics, resorting to bullying and blackmail his colleague George Aaronow (Michael McKean) along with theft, to get revenge on his employers.

Ricky Roma (Culkin), resting comfortably at the top of the sales board, is shown employing his sales pitch on the seemingly easy mark James Lingk (John Pirruccello). By the time the lights go up for intermission, it’s clear something is going to combust. The only question is who will be left standing.

That is determined the following day, as they find their office in chaos, both physically and metaphorically. Scott Pask’s scenic design, accompanied by Jen Schriever’s lighting, is excellent, as per usual, perfectly capturing the faded grandeur these unsuccessfully strive for. The office was burglarized, and Detective Baylen (Howard W. Overshown) has arrived to question the employees. As the details of the crime unravels, so do the power dynamics within the office – and some of the men’s futures.

All of the actors are capable, some excellent. Burr is well-suited to the brash and abrasive Moss, and McKean inspires warmth and sympathy for Aaronow. As the world-weary, tightly-wound office manager, Webber Jr.’s inevitable explosion is deeply gratifying to witness. Odenkirk excels as the aging Levine, bringing to mind Death of a Salesman’s tragic hero, and both Overshown and Pirruccello bring gravitas to their supporting characters. Sadly, Culkin is not as well-cast. The frenetic charm and thinly-veiled vulnerability that made Roman Roy such a fascinating character are ill-suited to Roma, rendering his carefully calculated manipulations ineffective. His first-act interaction with Pirruccello – mostly a monologue – comes across as self-indulgent and fails to compel.

I was puzzled by my contempt for these people, while I eagerly watched Succession every Sunday night. I had no sympathy for how these men’s identities relied upon their success, but the question of which of the Roys would run Waystar Royco captivated me for years. Perhaps it was the intimacy that television offered, or that Succession probed the background to the making of these monsters. It was hard not to feel something for that trio after glimpses into the horrors of their childhoods. Witnessing how insecurity and desperation for validation motivated their actions provoked some pathos but nothing like that is examined in Mamet’s script. It only skims the surface, resisting any inquiry into morality or masculinity, toxic or otherwise.

That could be credited, in part, to the unfortunate real estate of this production. The Palace Theater is too large, by far, for a play in which intimacy sorely is needed. This 1,648 audience, distanced from the stage, is suited for a large-scale musical – even though those 1,648 seats were filled the night I attended.

What is it, I wondered, that continues to draw actors to this play? There are far more interesting, complex, relevant characters – both classic and contemporary – to explore. Is it the desire to show they can memorize these monologues? The desire to be paid, with money and laughter, to utter profanity onstage? To be celebrated for letting their worst instincts be publicly aired? (Mamet’s script features more than 150 “f*cks”.) The increasingly-right-wing writer claims to have been censored by the left, but his plays continue to be revived as new ones are debuted and his next book will be released in June. Whether these writings will reflect more modern, or realistic, society remains to be seen.