
Gobsmacked. That’s how I felt when I learned that SIR PATRICK STEWART, our beloved Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Professor Charles Xavier, had passed away at the age of 86 on Wednesday. I was even more astonished to discover that Sir Patrick has suffered “a brief and poignant journey with Alzheimer’s disease and Lewy body dementia.” What a tragic way to go, I thought.
Then I thought: But, oh, how he lived!
Granted, Sir Patrick didn’t fly to space like his starship captain predecessor WILLIAM SHATNER did. Then again, Bill was never knighted by the Queen of England, so I think we can call it a wash.
But the fact is that both actors were consummate professionals and unbelievably gifted, and both were truly Renaissance men (and Shatner still is at 95, God bless him!). Patrick Stewart could hold an audience captive, entranced and delighted, for hours. I saw him do it multiple times at four different performances of his live, one-man production of CHARLES DICKENS’ A Christmas Carol—once in Pasadena, in San Diego, on Broadway, and in Hollywood. Each show was a masterpiece.
During the final performance on my above list, Sir Patrick’s voice started to give out toward the end of the first act. He battled his way through coughs, but ten minutes into the second act, after increasing struggles, it was obvious that the actor had contracted an illness, and try as he might, he couldn’t continue. He stopped the performance and humbly apologized to all of us. His disappointment seemed to be almost more than that of the rest of the audience combined. As an actor, he knew that the show must always go on. But he simply couldn’t. We gave him a standing ovation nonetheless, having watched his herculean efforts to try to finish. Bravo, sir, bravo!
I remember early in Sir Patrick’s convention appearances going to see him for the first time in Binghamton, NY. And if you have no idea where Binghamton is, that shows you how early it was, as it was a tiny con. In fact, I believe this was at the beginning of TNG‘s second season. Camera phones were still decades away, and Patrick (not yet a “Sir”) politely requested that no one record his presentation, either on video or a tape recorder. “I believe, as an actor,” he began, “that every performance is a secret, shared only between those on stage and their audience. It is recorded in memories only, with special nuances known only to those in attendance on that particular night or day.” Nearly forty years later, I still remember those words.
I also remember Patrick saying the following profound thing. “I mourn the death of words. Our beautiful language is contracting. Oh, certainly it expands with the addition of technical terms like megabyte and motherboard. But wonderful words like sagacity and widdershins are disappearing from a lack of use. This deeply saddens me, and please let me explain why…
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