My generation’s cynicism can, at least in part, be traced back to our grade school lessons in “stranger danger.” We were taught to trust no one, no matter how seemingly benevolent. Even today, I’d rather the UPS man just leave the box at my doorstep. All the prime-time police procedurals I watch have bred a hyper-awareness of surroundings and a tinge of paranoia. It’s almost impossible to imagine an era in American history when a traveling salesman, a total stranger peddling goods, would be invited into a home to make a pitch. The idea is absolutely beyond the comprehension of a former latchkey kid who was taught to quake and hide at the ring of a doorbell. But, I suppose peddling the Good Word lends some credibility to one’s commercial crusade, and thus we arrive at Salesman (1968), a primary source in the history of our American identity.
This Maysles Brothers documentary is a desperate, alternately funny and melancholy look at the enterprise of selling Bibles door-to-door in the late 1960s. We watch as the focal character, Paul Brennan--more affectionately known as “The Badger,” burns out in a firework of disenchantment as he loses his ability to connect with the customer and make the sale. As much as examining the personalities and defeats of the salesman, the film depicts the seedy side of ecclesiastical commercialization in such unlikely nooks as the Edgewater Resort conference room, a pre-sale poolside pep talk, and around the poker table.
In a sales meeting, we see a bull-faced bully of a man stand at the front and threaten to fire any man who isn’t meeting his sales quota with a perky attitude. There are no excuses. There are no individuals. There are only numbers. You can see the creases of panic in The Badger’s face as he looks on: his performance is surely on the chopping block. But he’s not to be pitied as much as the poor bastards who, like men moved by a sermon walk to the pulpit to be saved, stand up and give a testimony of their investment in their work and how much dough they plan to rake in during the coming year. And what’s worse--they use their proclamations of projected wealth to publicly challenge and demean one another. Let us not forget that they plan to claim these thousands by selling leather-bound volumes (available in red or in “antique” white) to believers and non (doesn’t matter). They’ve managed to suck the sacred out of religion like the world’s most powerful vacuum.
In addition to the business and the salesmen, let us not forget the final piece of this unholy trinity--the customer. For the most part, people are receptive to at least the pitch. But they, too, talk a mean game. In a smattering of polite deceptions, it’s hard to know the score between seller and buyer. Who really has the upper hand? From Boston to Florida, these homes looking to purchase paginated salvation all seem burdened by the myriad defeats of an ordinary life. Most of these god-fearing citizens come off as though they’ve had the wind knocked out of their sails, in turn knocking the wind out of the sales. The major selling points? The leather binding. The section of glossy paintings in the middle. The Message? The message? It’s all in the packaging, baby.
As we meander the snowy sidewalks and sunny shorelines, everything comes back around to The Badger. Watching Paul Brennan attempt to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of Opa-locka, Florida, we see all the pieces of his life presented in concise clarity. His inability to communicate and connect with people he doesn’t know. An ineffectual wandering. A search for purpose. And the finale of spinning the disaster into a yarn for the consolation pittance of a few laughs. Because if they’re laughing (whether at him or with him) he has some value, a contribution to the group . . . a performance to divert from his performance.
In a tag-team sale, The Badger is accompanied by the much younger, much more optimistic Rabbit, formally James Baker. It’s dark outside, and the two sit in the living room of a couple with a young boy. It’s late . . . the woman is even in her nightgown. There’s the suggestion of an intimate trust bestowed upon these salesmen the likes of which are virtually unknown in our society today. The Badger decides to assert himself into the Rabbit’s seemingly successful sales pitch, and his boldness tinged with negativity sends the whole thing south. Which is painful enough to watch. But when The Rabbit, with the impulsive condescension of youth, publicly chides him and berates his earnest tactics in front of the family, it feels like the final straw for The Badger. It’s as if we’re watching the world formally acknowledge his futility. Outdated, outmoded, outmanned.
During one successful sale of a Bible and a Catholic Person’s Encyclopedia, the wife (in curlers) signs her name to the order form while her husband (in his undershirt) puts an instrumental recording of The Beatles’ “Yesterday” on the family record player. The sound comes out wonky and drunken. As people sign away money they don’t have in search of gilded meaning, we get the sense that they do believe in yesterday, and not much else. The present is certainly lackluster, and the future seems tenuous at best . . . especially in the case of The Badger. In a time of upheaval, change, and unrest, the Maysles have preserved an amusingly bleak saga of man’s search for meaning in the modern era, either by purchasing or peddling.
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