Tom Stoppard was our Oscar Wilde.
According to the playwright John Guare, a woman sitting in front of him at a performance of The Real Thing was heard saying to her husband, “I feel so witty!” And indeed, we all felt witty and smart, maybe even erudite, watching a Stoppard play. Certainly we actors thought it a rare privilege to speak his words, inhabit his mindscape, rise to his level of eloquence.
Sir Tom had a formidable intellect, a dazzling talent, a kind and graceful manner, and a rock star glamour. He wore the mantle of his fame lightly, rather like a cashmere scarf tossed around his neck. With his lion’s mane of hair, those voluptuous lips, and dangling cigarette, we all had a crush on him!
I had the great good fortune of being cast as Jeremy Irons’s wife in the New York production of The Real Thing in 1983. Also starring Glenn Close and the young Cynthia Nixon, the play was a solid-gold Broadway smash, earning Tony Awards for best play, best direction, and best acting awards for Jeremy, Glenn, and me.
Being in a rehearsal room with Tom and our director, the brilliant Mike Nichols, was one of the
most memorable aspects of the experience, both of them whip-smart and witty. It was elevated company. I always compared the production to a flight to Paris on the Concorde.
Actors speak of Tom with such genuine affection and admiration. He shared his brilliance with such ease. He was a good listener—curious and never condescending, despite his daunting intelligence. He leaves behind a varied, truly original body of work, from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Travesties, Jumpers, The Real Thing, Arcadia, and The Invention of Love, to The Coast of Utopia and Leopoldstadt. His subject matter spanned a wide breadth of subjects. His language and ideas have muscularity. They challenge us to think wider, feel deeper. At a time when language and conversation have become abbreviated shorthand, he takes the long and winding road of thought clearly and elegantly expressed. Words, language, and ideas were deeply important.
When asked by the English critic Kenneth Tynan why his work is often charged with a lack of genuine feeling, Tom gave the following response:
“That criticism is always being presented to me as if it were a membrane that I must somehow break through in order to grow up…. I think that sort of truth-telling writing is as big a lie as the deliberate fantasies I construct. It’s based on the fallacy of naturalism. There’s a direct line of descent from the naturalistic theatre which leads you straight down to the dregs of bad theatre, bad thinking, and bad feeling. At the other end of the scale, I dislike Abstract Expressionism even more than I dislike naturalism. But you asked me about expressing emotion. Let me put the best possible light on my inhibitions and say that I’m waiting until I can do it well.”
We will not see the likes of him again. Good night, sweet prince.