By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Despite what cynics may say about Americans' cultural amnesia, however, the passionate fans probably spoke for viewers in general when they drew a clear distinction, in Marchand's case, between the performer and the role. Livia Soprano had become an icon to them, but they knew, by and large, that Nancy Marchand was not Livia Soprano. Most obviously, they knew because so many of them had first encountered her as Lou Grant's Mrs. Pynchon, a forceful, maternal figure as different from Livia as Livia was from the Nancy Marchand her theater colleagues knew and loved. And Mrs. Pynchon, through Nancy's incisiveness and magnetism, had captured the public imagination to the same extent as Livia; even collective amnesia can't wash away, without considerable effort, a performance popular enough to win the Emmy four out of five seasons running.
In addition to Mrs. Pynchon, Marchand's video fans were aware of the flurry of movies she'd made in the early '90s: Sabrina was frequently mentioned, and one e-mailer celebrated the surprise of seeing a "younger" Nancy turn up in 1988's The Naked Gun. How would he have reacted, one wonders, to the sight of a truly young Nancy, fidgety and wistful, opposite Rod Steiger in the original 1953 TV version of Paddy Chayefsky's Marty? Only now, looking back across a career that spanned half a century, can we realize that Nancy Marchand accomplished one of the near-impossible feats of American acting: She made even the technological media, home of typecasting, perceive her as a repertory actress, cutting across class and ethnic lines as easily as she traversed the generations.
That the viewers, and her TV colleagues, responded to this approach may be the best praise our videocentric civilization will ever get. It made reporting her death, in effect, a challenge that entertainment-news journalists handled honorably for the most part: They acknowledged her theater career and noted the names of her movies; readers and televiewers in a remarkably large number of cities were informed that Marchand had won two Obies. (One Jersey paper called her "star of stage and Sopranos.") The L.A. Times, home paper of a city not famous for its obsession with theater, went so far as to include her Drama Desk and Outer Critics Circle awards. Ironically, the only print media to confine Nancy's career to her TV roles were our own New York Post and Entertainment Weekly. And only Marvin Kitman, in his Newsday tribute, committed, albeit gracefully, the solecism of confusing actress and role: "I don't want to speak ill of the dead," he wrote, recounting Livia's outrageous acts of malice as if they had been committed by Nancy in real life.
That life, as most theatergoing New Yorkers know, was one in which the outrageous acts were acts of artistic risk and artistic clarity, committed onstage out of a wholehearted passion for the theater. Majestically tall, long-boned, and elegant of profile, Nancy was an actress for whom no role that interested her was beyond accessibility; technique merely meant a readiness to find the part of herself available for any such role; and the only reason to demand more was that you weren't being used by the theater to your fullest extent. She belonged to the post-World War II generation that vitalized the early Off-Broadway movement. Her 47-year marriage to the actor Paul Sparer, who died last November, ran on an overlapping track with her artistic career. They were among the founders of the APA Repertory Company, where I first saw Nancy, playing everything from Lady Sneerwell to a low-down procuressa range so extensive that I was never startled, later on, by her revelatory capacity. (When she played Ann Whitefield, in Man and Superman, Rosemary Harris played Violet; in later performances they exchanged roles.)
By that time, she had already won her first Obie, for creating the role of Madame Irma in the New York premiere of Genet's The Balcony, establishing the niche of "imperious" roles in which the typecasters would like to leave her. But even imperiousness has its nuances, and Madame Irma is a long way from the ironclad, alcoholic mother in Gurney's The Cocktail Hour (her second Obie, three decades later); Bessie Berger in Awake and Sing!; or Christopher Durang's Sister Mary Ignatius. And there was nothing "imperious" about the work for which she was probably most loved by Broadway audiencesthe fluttery, scatterbrained matron of Morning's at Seven. She had the great artist's gift for letting the opposite quality seep into her most decisive choices. I am probably one of the few people who remember seeing her, in Chicago, make a rare venture into musical theater as the soigné, hardheaded Vera of Pal Joey; she's the only performer, out of hundreds, whom I've ever heard sing "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" as if she actually were all those things, making the worn-out old song fresh and dramatic.