Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman stands as a colossal testament to the fragility of the American Dream, the perils of self-delusion, and the enduring complexity of human relationships. Like a masterful chef, Miller concocts a heady stew of pathos and tragedy. So, grab your briefcase and your existential dread, as we delve into this mid-20th century marvel of modern drama.
At the heart of Death of a Salesman is Willy Loman (another one name-dropped by Loudon Wainwright III), a man whose last name practically screams his status in life. Willy is the quintessential tragic hero, albeit a little more rumpled and worn around the edges than, say, Oedipus or Hamlet. But instead of grappling with fate or princely duties, Willy’s nemesis is the unrelenting pressure to succeed in a capitalist society that worships at the altar of the almighty dollar.
Willy’s tragic flaw is his unwavering belief in a distorted version of the American Dream. He buys into the idea that charisma and likability are the golden tickets to success, a notion that unravels faster than a cheap suit. In one particularly poignant scene, Willy tells his sons, Biff and Happy, “The man who makes an appearance in the business world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want.” It’s almost Shakespearean in its folly – a modern-day “All that glitters is not gold.”
Biff and Happy, for their part, are complex characters moulded by their father’s delusions and expectations. Biff, the once-glorious high school football star, spends his adult life wrestling with the realisation that his dreams are not his own, but rather the byproduct of his father’s incessant pressure. His epiphany in the penultimate act – “I realised what a ridiculous lie my whole life has been” – is a sobering counterpoint to Willy’s unyielding optimism. Happy, on the other hand, embodies the hollow pursuit of material success, chasing women and wealth with the same blind fervour that Willy chases his sales commissions.
Linda Loman, the stalwart wife and mother, is the silent force holding the family together. She navigates the choppy waters of Willy’s mood swings and fantasies with a grace and patience that borders on the saintly. Her famous line, “Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person,” is a poignant reminder of the dignity every individual deserves, regardless of their successes or failures.
The play’s structure is a pastiche of present action and flashbacks, reflecting Willy’s fragmented mental state. Miller deftly blurs the lines between reality and memory, creating a dreamlike quality that underscores Willy’s inability to reconcile his past with his present. This technique also serves to highlight the cyclical nature of his despair, as past mistakes and missed opportunities haunt his every waking moment.
Amidst the tragedy, there’s a streak of dark humour that gives the play its biting edge. Take, for instance, Willy’s comically desperate attempts to plant a garden in his tiny Brooklyn yard – a futile gesture that symbolises his yearning to leave a tangible legacy. Or consider the way Miller uses the character of Charley, Willy’s pragmatic neighbour, to puncture Willy’s grandiose illusions with blunt honesty. Charley’s remark, “The only thing you got in this world is what you can sell,” is a sobering truth bomb that cuts through Willy’s fog of self-deception.
Death of a Salesman remains a timeless critique of the American Dream’s darker underbelly. It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of losing oneself in the pursuit of success and the importance of facing reality, no matter how harsh it may be. As we watch Willy Loman’s final descent into despair, we’re reminded of the universal struggle to find meaning and fulfillment in a world that often values appearances over substance.
In the end, Willy’s demise is both tragic and inevitable, a poignant testament to the human condition. His story serves as a mirror, reflecting our own aspirations and anxieties. Miller, with his keen insight and sharp wit, compels us to ask: What is the true cost of our dreams? And in the pursuit of success, how often do we overlook the simple, enduring value of being truly seen and understood?
Success is a poor substitute for self-awareness.
Wording 