Johnny's Reviews > Death of a Salesman

This play almost transcends a rating. It doesn't matter if you hate it or love it or like it or have no real opinion, you still have to read/see it. There aren't many books/plays/poems/films I think Americans "need" to consume--probably just this, really. It's just that any conversation about the American Dream and Family in pop culture and media lives in this book, no matter how gaudily.

Death is to American Lit what an over-hopped IPA is to beer: it screams its one characteristic, and it can be deafening and uncomfortable, quality wise. But by isolating that characteristic--hops in beer, competitive, life-destroying, blind, hustling pride in American Lit--you cast a wide net of introduction. Malt and family get sucked up into the whole assault led by hops and pride on your tongue, and you end up with an extra bitter taste in your mouth. People who have never tasted that bitterness in a glass or on a stage are awakened and either gaze or walk away,and those beer snobs "who know better" shrug it off as overdone. The newbies who stay at the bar and order it again and again get fucked up, maybe just on IPAs and blunt drama, but maybe on the whole world of beer and lit.

Biff's "You've just seen a prince walk by" is out of control and almost laughable. Linda's Act One tirade is a depressive blast. But you can't miss it, you can't miss that "I AM NOT A DIME A DOZEN! I AM WILLY LOMAN! YOU ARE BIFF LOMAN!"

So I like it, sure, I don't love it. But you've gotta read/see it. I mean, you have to.