Theatre in Review: Glengarry Glen Ross (Palace Theatre)On the day the stock market dove headfirst into a sea of red ink, there I was, at the Palace, surrounded by theatregoers who had spent upwards of several hundred dollars to see a savage critique of capitalism by a playwright who espouses free market philosophies and supports the current occupant of the White House. Is this a great country, or what? If the above makes you feel a little dizzy, you're not alone. The good news is that, aside from one questionable casting decision, David Mamet's brackish masterpiece is in solid hands in Patrick Marber's production. Written in the 1980s, an era that celebrated the art of the deal, Mamet instead focuses on the art of the double cross as practiced by a gaggle of bottom-feeding real estate hucksters flogging dubious-sounding land packages in Florida. It's Death of a Salesman, reimagined in a profane, acrid farce driven by burglary, blackmail, and bald-faced deceit. The eccentrically structured play begins with a disconcertingly short first act that serves as a kind of overture, introducing the characters and their motives in a trio of encounters, brilliantly setting up a plausible diversion that cues the major Act II bombshell. Here, it also serves as a good introduction to the production's strengths and weaknesses. First up is Bob Odenkirk, whose tense body language and choppy hand gestures constitute semaphore signals of existential distress as Shelley, the show's Willy Loman figure. A burnt-out case who hasn't landed a sale in who knows when, he pleads his case for higher-quality leads to John, the impassive, by-the-book manager, played by the poker-faced, subtly hostile Donald Webber, Jr. Shelly's speeches are masterful arias constructed out of sentence fragments and unrelated grievances, and his pathetic attempts at bribing John with kickbacks only underline his desperation; there's just enough of a hint of sadism in Webber's John, especially, following Shelley's improper offer, letting him dangle an extra few seconds before giving him an answer. The play's prevailing unforgiving atmosphere is well established in the first few minutes. Still, for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of seeing a con trap his mark, the second scene can't be beat. The comedian Bill Burr displays considerable acting chops as affable, garrulous Dave, who, sharing drinks and job grievances with Michael McKean as George, another underperforming old-timer, spins a fantasy of breaking into their office, stealing the prize leads, and selling them to a rival dealer, for whom he would then go to work. McKean, a master of underplaying, chuckles contentedly at this revenge scenario until Dave reveals that George has to stage the theft that very night, or he will be handed over as an accomplice. The skill with which Dave slips a noose around George's neck is a sly act of prestidigitation; the speed with which Dave's amusement curdles into horror and a sense of entrapment is equally deft. This scene is the production's acting high point. This scene is the production's high point, slick, vicious, and brazenly funny. The evening slackens noticeably in the third scene, largely because the fine actor Kieran Culkin is an odd choice to play top dog salesman Ricky Roma. The character -- previously played by Joe Mantegna, Liev Schreiber, and Al Pacino -- is typically sleek and reptilian, his designer suit accessorized, and his faux-friendly manner optimized for fleecing innocents. Culkin, his manner casual, his full beard giving him an uncanny resemblance to the Smith Brothers of cough drop fame, is a much nerdier sort; his come-on to a hapless mark (John Pirruccello, of the frightened rabbit demeanor) is less a full-frontal assault than a just-friends sharing of real estate fun facts. If he takes some getting used to, he brings enormous conviction to his line readings, managing to make the character his own; this is especially true of his frantic Act II attempt at holding onto a sale, which unravels spectacularly, sending him into full meltdown mode. In response to the questionable decision to stage this seven-character play in one of Broadway's largest theatres, designer Scott Pask has delivered a pair of extravagantly seedy sets. The Act I Chinese restaurant, with its curving banquettes, carved wall decorations, and hanging lanterns, is the kind of old-school fried-rice palace that one doesn't see anymore; the hushed atmosphere and dark red palette make it the ideal spot for skullduggery. The Act II office is a grim arrangement of cheap wood paneling, tacky furniture, and low-hanging fluorescent units. If a room could be depressed, this is it, and that's not even considering the broken windows and paper-littered floor, evidence of the previous night's break-in. Lighting designer Jen Schriever is a most congenial creative partner, providing just the right gloomy aura for the restaurant, and rolling out a fading sunlight effect for the office. Pask also designed the period-accurate costumes. (There's no credit for sound design, reportedly because Mamet doesn't believe in it. But somebody has fitted out the actors with mics, and the back of the program lists an A1 and an A2.) As always, when one sees a solid or better production of Glengarry Glen Ross, it's hard not to marvel at the author's real-life reembrace of capitalism with the play's bitter, worm's-eye view of the dirty business of moneymaking. (Their mantra, "Always be closing," could just as easily be "Always be cheating.") Still, this relatively early work demonstrates his knack for turning the foulest language and a litany of ethnic slurs into sulfurous hilarity; at the same time, he conveys a strange sympathy for men reduced by a pitiless system to cockroaches battling for survival, never mind the Cadillac or steak knives awarded to first- and second-place sellers. (Under Marber's direction, there is considerably more panic in the air than usual.) Glengarry Glen Ross doesn't stop to wonder about the soul-destroying effects of unloading unwanted real estate that their gullible prospects may or may not be able to afford. It just shows them in action -- lying, feigning friendship, making alliances that quickly turn into blackmail, and committing felonies if necessary. And when it all goes wrong, a kind of oblivion awaits. At least, Willy Loman had a family to care about and a dream to believe in. For Mamet's guys, the end of the rainbow promises nothing but steak knives. --David Barbour 
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