Albert and David Maysles, apparently working from a personal source (the four men, nicknamed the Gipper, the Rabbit, the Bull, and the quasi-lead being the Badger, all come from or around the Irish-Boston section that the Maysles came from as well), found themselves a kind of theatrical core to what is, in terms of the actual shooting, about as straight-on as can be in documentary cinema. Al Maysles, especially, would make the bulk of his work in the future just like this- shooting with just him on camera and a sound-guy (in this case David)- and it has the feel of being right there and up front in the situations. What the Maysles called "direct-cinema", as opposed to the term Cinema Verite. It's not exactly a news program, but it's not your run-of-the-mill documentary either. While the brothers put their subjective view on the material by, of course, choosing what not to show (who knows if the men made more sales than were actually shown, or if there were more quiet moments or conversations in the motel rooms that rambled further), and in the editing process of who to cut to or what to close-in or back away from, it feels always fresh in perspective.
We're really right there seeing what is going on during the sale, as well as seeing how the men "unwind" by complaining about the sales they didn't make, the things that kept them from what they had to do, which was put forward the "#1 bestselling book in the world" for 49.99 a month to your average Joe or Mrs. Joe down the street. What the Maysles don't ask is to make you really put a very harsh judgment either way; by both sides presented, of the men in the desperate but completely professional and slick act of selling (selling themselves probably just as much as the bible, and how getting the sale or not suddenly changes them in front of the prospective customer), and how they are behind closed doors, shooting the s***, playing cards, or driving in their cars. Most especially fascinating, however, is that the Maysles put a theatrical ring to the proceedings, like watching characters from a stage play ala O'Neill in the great drama of life- characters, by the way, who can be talked about just as real people as figures in a film.
Seeing Salesman gives a glimpse not so much into religion- they're not sermonizing here, the Maysles- but into a specific world that doesn't exist the way it used to, where men followed along leads from previous sellers, and sometimes made it through the door or not at all. There's a disarming quality to the production; we should think that these guys aren't the ones to like or identify with, that we're the ones getting peddled to and made to feel like we MUST get this or else and so on. By opening it up just by a glimpse, and how the 16mm camera goes around with the freedom of the fly-on-the-wall, it opens up the perspective. It's one of the Maysles's very best, a piece of true Americana as a time capsule.
We're really right there seeing what is going on during the sale, as well as seeing how the men "unwind" by complaining about the sales they didn't make, the things that kept them from what they had to do, which was put forward the "#1 bestselling book in the world" for 49.99 a month to your average Joe or Mrs. Joe down the street. What the Maysles don't ask is to make you really put a very harsh judgment either way; by both sides presented, of the men in the desperate but completely professional and slick act of selling (selling themselves probably just as much as the bible, and how getting the sale or not suddenly changes them in front of the prospective customer), and how they are behind closed doors, shooting the s***, playing cards, or driving in their cars. Most especially fascinating, however, is that the Maysles put a theatrical ring to the proceedings, like watching characters from a stage play ala O'Neill in the great drama of life- characters, by the way, who can be talked about just as real people as figures in a film.
Seeing Salesman gives a glimpse not so much into religion- they're not sermonizing here, the Maysles- but into a specific world that doesn't exist the way it used to, where men followed along leads from previous sellers, and sometimes made it through the door or not at all. There's a disarming quality to the production; we should think that these guys aren't the ones to like or identify with, that we're the ones getting peddled to and made to feel like we MUST get this or else and so on. By opening it up just by a glimpse, and how the 16mm camera goes around with the freedom of the fly-on-the-wall, it opens up the perspective. It's one of the Maysles's very best, a piece of true Americana as a time capsule.