Moss and Levene vehemently oppose the generalizations, accusations, and mistreatment, while Aaronow passively endures it. “You believe this is abuse?” Blake angrily bellows at him. “If you can’t handle this, how do you handle the abuse you face daily?” At that moment, Arkin’s face becomes a mask, attempting to hold it together but failing; if you observe closely, his eyes seem on the verge of tears. When he is finally out of the hotshot’s line of sight, he lets out a long-held breath.
This sensitivity is what sets apart Arkin’s character and performance from the various displays of overpowering masculinity in “Glengarry Glen Ross.” Pacino’s Roma exudes bravado, most of which is earned; Lemmon’s Levene and Harris’s Moss try to do the same, snapping and shouting at anyone who wrongs them, smoothly selling to the individuals on the other end of the phone, but their swagger feels more like empty boasts. On the other hand, Aaronow is entirely vulnerable, an exposed wound of desperation and fear. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, about reducing the sales force,” he insists as soon as Blake departs, but denial quickly gives way to despondency. “They’re going to fire me,” he laments to Moss, blaming himself rather than acknowledging the cutthroat standards of the office or the faltering economy outside. He insists, “Something is wrong with me. I can’t close deals.”
In this weakened state, he seeks emotional support and encouragement from Moss; however, Moss seizes upon this need and exploits it, involving Aaronow in an ill-advised plan to break into the Premiere Properties office and steal the new, promising leads—the coveted Glengarry leads. The bullish Moss dangles the bait and lures the weaker man in, instilling the idea and provoking further curiosity. Observe Arkin’s eyes in this sequence, the attentive way he listens, absorbs the information he receives, and processes it; pay close attention to the way he delivers a line like, “Are we discussing this, or are we simply talking about this,” understanding the distinction between two versions of the same word and deftly conveying it to the listener. Then witness how he acknowledges that, merely by listening, he has become an accomplice to the crime. The simplicity with which this realization overtakes his expression and how he conveys it in one simple word (“Me”) is both a remarkable showcase of acting technique and a heart-rending moment of character identification.
Arkin and Harris execute this duet sequence like two jazz musicians exchanging rapid-fire improvisations, the dynamics established not only by their words but also by their delivery—the breakneck tempo, casual jargon, sentences or even words interrupted midstream, sometimes because one understands where the other is heading, sometimes because they can’t be bothered to wait before saying what’s on their mind. Mamet’s hyper-stylized dialogue isn’t easy to perform; if the rhythm is off, it can feel unbearably artificial, more like written words than natural speech. However, Arkin more than holds his own against Harris in this context, as well as in later duets with Pacino, a heavyweight dramatic actor.
Nevertheless, the brilliance of his casting lies in his ability to tap into his innate sense of comedic timing, eliciting laughter from these jagged exchanges or when he later exaggerates his outrage over the crime (“Criminals arrive, plunder, and pilfer the phones!”) and his interrogation by the police (“I experience Gestapo tactics!”). Yet, his finest moments as Aaronow are the quiet ones, like when he softly pleads with Moss (once caught in the trap), “Why are you doing this to me?” He isn’t seeking sympathy; this is a subdued cry of abandonment and despair.
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