On Sunday afternoon, I caught a community theater production of one of my favorite pieces of literature, David Mamet's Pulitzer Prize-winning Glengarry Glen Ross, performed at the Desert Stages Theater here in Scottsdale. I have read the text several times and seen the 1992 film version dozens of times, but this was my first live performance. With a running time of only around 75 mintues, Mamet packs a flurry of punches into his tiny script.
On a minimalist stage in a room with about 50 seats (the furthest being a mere 20 feet from the actors), no line flubs are allowed as Mamet's jargon is the ultimate test of effective rehearsal and a deterrent to improv. In order to stay on pace and elicit the high-wire tension of each verbal exchange, Mamet crafted his play so that every pause, um, and stutter must be voiced as it is on the page, and any mistake in dialogue diminishes the actors' ability to convey the urgency of the plot and the desperation of the characters.
What many people unfamiliar with the play may not know is that the play is slightly different than the film, with less background information offered and the noticeable absence of the iconic "Always Be Closing" monologue delivered in the film by Alec Baldwin. But these extra bits of character development are not crucial for the stage. For this play is about talking. And more importantly, not listening. In nearly every scene one character steamrolls another into believing him. Constant interruptions and half-sentences become power dynamics, and raised voices turn into weapons. Selling real estate is a man's game and real men are closers, they say. But such commitment comes with a willingness to lie--to clients, to bosses, to each other. And lies can only remain hidden for so long.
The film version, admittedly, is almost impossible to top. After all, among the five main actors, they have 26 Oscar nominations among them. But the play is not about superstar celebrities. It's about regular guys doing a regular job. The men in the play could be any of us. Their job could be any job. And the audience must constantly ask themselves, "What would I do in that situation?" GGR is almost an experience, like some grand musical, in which most of the fun is wondering if the performers can actually pull it off. Perhaps no other play is as simple, yet as dangerous to perform.
At its heart, GGR is a play about words, those we say and those we want to hear. Like some type of linguistic hyperkinesis, Mamet's language patters off the actors' tongues and bounces across the stage like a verbal ping pong match with more than one ball in play. His speed, wit, and rhythm make Aaron Sorkin's writing sound like The Old Man and the Sea. And the live performance actually comes off as funnier than the film does, which surprised me. Though the play is VERY R-rated, if you ever get a chance to see GGR live, I highly recommend it.
On a minimalist stage in a room with about 50 seats (the furthest being a mere 20 feet from the actors), no line flubs are allowed as Mamet's jargon is the ultimate test of effective rehearsal and a deterrent to improv. In order to stay on pace and elicit the high-wire tension of each verbal exchange, Mamet crafted his play so that every pause, um, and stutter must be voiced as it is on the page, and any mistake in dialogue diminishes the actors' ability to convey the urgency of the plot and the desperation of the characters.
What many people unfamiliar with the play may not know is that the play is slightly different than the film, with less background information offered and the noticeable absence of the iconic "Always Be Closing" monologue delivered in the film by Alec Baldwin. But these extra bits of character development are not crucial for the stage. For this play is about talking. And more importantly, not listening. In nearly every scene one character steamrolls another into believing him. Constant interruptions and half-sentences become power dynamics, and raised voices turn into weapons. Selling real estate is a man's game and real men are closers, they say. But such commitment comes with a willingness to lie--to clients, to bosses, to each other. And lies can only remain hidden for so long.
The film version, admittedly, is almost impossible to top. After all, among the five main actors, they have 26 Oscar nominations among them. But the play is not about superstar celebrities. It's about regular guys doing a regular job. The men in the play could be any of us. Their job could be any job. And the audience must constantly ask themselves, "What would I do in that situation?" GGR is almost an experience, like some grand musical, in which most of the fun is wondering if the performers can actually pull it off. Perhaps no other play is as simple, yet as dangerous to perform.
At its heart, GGR is a play about words, those we say and those we want to hear. Like some type of linguistic hyperkinesis, Mamet's language patters off the actors' tongues and bounces across the stage like a verbal ping pong match with more than one ball in play. His speed, wit, and rhythm make Aaron Sorkin's writing sound like The Old Man and the Sea. And the live performance actually comes off as funnier than the film does, which surprised me. Though the play is VERY R-rated, if you ever get a chance to see GGR live, I highly recommend it.