Though they are never seen or heard on screen, Bruce and Harriett Nyborg are, at least for sad sack Shelley “The Machine” Levene, the last, best hope for redemption. Fuck that, a paycheck. Fuck it further, a hot meal at last after weeks of stale coffee and gas station sandwiches. Here, at the nadir, is the whole enchilada. A daughter in the hospital, bills piling up. The ass-end of a once proud career, reduced to this. This, of course, being the Nyborgs. Every egg Shelley has ever known thrown hastily into this one big basket, coming apart at the seams. It’s a dead end for sure. He knows it, the Nyborgs know it, and the rest of the sales force sure as hell know it, but when you’re a salesman, there isn’t an available gear except second nature. Pure instinct, damn the odds. The more impossible the outcome, the harder you push. All in, like you were taught. You couldn’t escape it if you tried.
So yes, for Shelley, a shot. One last opportunity to make good, grab the chalk, and get on the big board. The Cadillac board. He saw those steak knives and made his move. Everything; here, now, and all at once. The road to hell with the Nyborgs riding shotgun. Never bought a damn thing, but this time will be different. He hears they have all their money tied up in government bonds, but there’s got to be a catch. An out. A breakthrough heretofore untested. And though they’re the store-bought crumb cake type – never a good sign – Shelley is staking his claim, pen in hand, and not leaving until there’s a deal. Start the clock. His arm is raised, then set. Still as death. Not a peep, not a gesture. No one even dares to blink. Twenty-two minutes by the kitchen clock, they’re all but encased in marble. “It was solemn, fucking solemn,” Shelley declares, as if they’d all just returned from a funeral. No sir, the funeral is right there in the Nyborg’s kitchen. They just think they’re alive and breathing. But that’s for later. In the moment, the earth is standing still. The white whale bagged at long last.
His pitch: eight units, $82,000. So what if the land doesn’t actually exist. The brochures are in living color, you fuck, and don’t ever doubt me again. He’s selling a dream, and whether in 1992 or the present day, it’s one steeped in illusion. Delusion, if we’re being frank. Something for nothing, like they’d always promised. An easy buck, and all you have to do is sign. On the line which is dotted, per the maxim. “The only arrangement I will accept is full investment,” he continues, a posture that promises exactly what it returns. Even in his shirt sleeves, easy as a Sunday morning, The Machine is running on all cylinders. Naked before the Nyborgs, as well as the whole damn world. Can’t think about tomorrow, because it all comes to a head today. I leave with a contract or make my date with the boneyard. Even then, with Bruce and Harriett’s John Hancocks locked up like a vow, it’s doomed to end tragically. Predictably. You could sue the bastards, but their assets begin and end with a sideboard full of dollar store shot glasses.
“They signed!” In the telling, with the lone Roma as his captive audience, it all seemed so real. A new day. Finally, a long-delayed break breaking the right way. But no, it just couldn’t be. The broke and the batshit don’t have $82,000. They don’t even have eighty-two cents. Filled out a card because it meant a late-night visit, followed by an early morning return. At the center of the universe, if only for a little while. Attention must be paid, from Willy Loman on down. The Nyborgs – childless, friendless, utterly and completely hopeless – just liked talking to salesmen. Makes a guy feel superior when you know you’re just fucking around. Playing them for suckers. In a rigged game, it’s nice to do the rigging for a change. Shelley’s wide-eyed hope, in the face of your sour self-loathing, is all the elixir you’ll need. I’ll show you for believing, because I sure as hell never have. Sure, it’s a risk, but what are you gonna do? Freedom is indeed having nothing left to lose, but so is rock fucking bottom.
And there it is. Shelley utterly destroyed, a life in shambles. Prison? Suicide? The options are few. So why not an Assholes of the Cinema? What cap could possibly be tipped in the direction of the Nyborgs? We all know heartless cruelty is inherent to capitalism, but must we also relish in a man’s fall? Yes. For this, more so. Because of the speech. The monologue. The recap between colleagues. Two men, a story, with everything at stake. Levene’s parting shot, before he’s torn asunder. A few moments to bask in all he had thought was true. What passed for his life. Sacrifice and pain, but it led here. And sure, I’m being selfish. As a cinephile, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen better. For my money, Jack Lemmon’s oration is the zenith of the acting profession, from the Greek stage forward. You want to know how it’s done, take a look. You want to know why I live and breathe the cinema? It’s all there. The best dialogue since Albee dissected the modern marriage, and the greatest display of chops that ever dared flicker before us. And none of it, my friends, without the Nyborgs. Unseen, unheard, and loved just the same.
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