“They seem to laugh at me,” he tells Linda about the buyers, adding, “I don’t know the reason for it, but they just pass me by. Willy has arrived at a kind of bewildering tipping point. “I have such thoughts, I have such strange thoughts,” he confides to Linda, his long-suffering wife (the tender and compelling Linda Emond). He is losing his concentration, his sales mojo, his salary, his temper, and, given his unmooring visions, maybe even his mind.
“Oh boy, oh boy,” he says, thrumming the table with his stubby fingers, dimly aware that something in him is going terribly wrong. Inside, he slouches in a kitchen chair, like a tire deflating. He has returned home after falling asleep at the wheel of his car. In the first beat of Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman” (now in a luminous revival, directed by Mike Nichols, at the Ethel Barrymore), the salesman Willy Loman (Philip Seymour Hoffman) trudges up the path to his Brooklyn house, sample cases in hand.
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