So long, Mr. Rickman

I was saddened to hear of Alan Rickman’s death this morning. He was an amazing actor, and one who impacted me more than most. Yes, he first got noticed playing bad guys, including a delightfully nasty Sheriff of Nottingham in “Robin Hood Prince of Thieves” who threatened to take my sympathies away from Kevin Costner’s Robin (just don’t tell my wife!). Yes, he was in “Galaxy Quest”. Yes, he was Severus Snape.

But the part that I’ll always remember him most for is Colonel Brandon in the Emma Thompson/Hugh Grant version of “Sense and Sensibility”. Rickman’s Brandon is a cathartic archetype of every good man who has ever loved women who only seem to be interested in bad boys while completely missing the wonderful man right under their nose. We doubt his sanity, but we never doubt his abject adoration of Marianne Dashwood. With perhaps the exception of Thompson’s Elinor, I empathized and sympathized with no other character as much as I did Col. Brandon.

His helpless desperation when Marianne was deathly ill rent my heart, and the look that comes into his eye when at last finds something he can do is perfection. His inherent and constant, quiet goodness is an inspiration. And when Marianne finally undergoes a transformation into a better person and come to see Brandon for who and what he is, it’s him I am happy for, not her. Colonel Brandon not only gets the woman he loved so hopelessly, but gets the woman he deserves in the woman he loves. (And kudos to Kate Winslet for playing her new-found affection so sincerely when the book leaves some doubt on the matter.)

I’m not sure the character could have been rendered so wonderfully by anyone but Rickman. The man was a master of acting with his entire body. He could speak chapters with a single sentence. He could write books with his facial expressions. He could say one thing convincingly while simultaneously and just as convincingly betraying himself with his eyes. He could draw a single phrase out into eternity, making us savor each syllable like a sonorous chocolate rose. And yet somehow he never over-acted a part. All that glorious acting never looked like acting.

I’m not so sure J. K. Rowling didn’t write Snape as Rickman. Regardless, she clearly knew who had to play him in the movie, and she has never been more right about anything. Rickman moved into the part and made it his own, bestowing the role with a passion and dignity and gravity that Rowling herself was unable to completely convey. It’s no wonder the movies nearly became the story of Snape as much as the story of Harry. And kudos to Rickman for catching that vision and sticking around long enough for his character to really get to shine most in the later movies.

It’s our loss that Rickman will not be working his magic on any more characters. There’s no one else like Rickman. If my life ever becomes interesting enough to be made into a movie, it was Rickman I’d have wanted to play me. The acting world has lost a true craftsman.

Mr. Rickman, bravo…and thank you.

(I hope all the Bowie fans out there will forgive my lack of reaction there, but David Bowie was never really on my radar outside of “Labyrinth”. His death is also a loss. I likely don’t realize how much he impacted the music I do listen to.)