Patrick Stewart, 1940 – 2026
It seems strange to say, but until yesterday evening, it had somehow never occurred to me that I would one day live in a world where Patrick Stewart did not exist. It's no surprise when a man well into his eighties dies, and when that death comes, as Stewart's did, as a relief from the degradations of Alzheimer's and Lewy body dementia, after a long and productive life and in the company of family and friends, it is not even a tragedy. And still, I find it hard to imagine a world without Patrick Stewart, which is probably another way of saying that I find it hard to imagine a world without Jean-Luc Picard, a character he not only played but put so much of himself into. I was a Star Trek fan before encountering The Next Generation, but Stewart was "my" captain, and he came to define Star Trek for me. More than that, however, he embodied an ideal of intellectualism, humanism, and restraint that, like so many other people of my generation, struck me to my core. As my friend Dan Hartland said yesterday, after hearing the news, it's possible that I would be an entirely different person without Captain Picard, and Stewart to play him.
Born in Yorkshire to a working class family, Stewart grew up under a father who was an alcoholic, and regularly violent towards his mother. In later years, he would discuss his realization that his father suffered from untreated PTSD from his experiences in WWII. Leaving school at fifteen without any qualifications, the young Patrick nevertheless found himself drawn to the stage, eventually winning a scholarship to study theater—one of those famed pathways into the arts that have been effectively foreclosed in the modern era, depriving us of the voices of working class artists. He joined the Royal Shakespeare Company in the 60s and became known for roles on stage in various Shakespearean productions, collaborating with superstars of mid-century British theater such as Trevor Nunn and Peter Brook. On screen, he appeared in material that was at least Shakespeare-adjacent: Sejanus in I, Claudius (1976), Lord Henry Grey, the father of the nine-day queen Jane Grey, in Lady Jane (1985), and Leondegrance in John Boorman's camp extravaganza Excalibur (1981). When he took a job in LA as the captain of the new Enterprise, it raised many eyebrows. Ian McKellen, Stewart's colleague at the RSC who would later become his X-Men co-star, frequent on-stage collaborator, and close friend, recalls wondering if Stewart would become "lost in Hollywood for years and years".
The truth, as it turned out, was quite the opposite. Stewart elevated the often cheesy material of early Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes, and inspired the show's writers to work to a higher level. As I wrote in 2011 in an essay about Jean-Luc Picard, part of a series inspired by rewatching TNG, it is probably no great exaggeration to say that modern Star Trek, the series and movies that came, one after another, in the late 80s, 90s, and early 00s, would not exist without Stewart raising TNG to the level it would eventually reach. As Rob has said, Stewart quickly established Picard as a viable couterpoint to James Kirk, but it would be reductive (to Kirk, as much as to Picard) to describe Picard as merely a standard-bearer of intellect and thoughtfulness against Kirk's brashness.
It's easy to lose sight of Picard's complexity when you watch the later Star Trek films, which reconfigure him as a shoot first, ask questions later action hero. Part of me thinks this transformation happened as a sop to Stewart's vanity, was maybe even instigated by him, and if that's the case then I suppose that after all he did for the franchise he's entitled to have his ego stroked—after all, it's not as if Insurrection or Nemesis were ever going to be masterpieces. But it's worth keeping in mind that this is not who Picard was, that the real character was a great deal more complicated—a man defined, in fact, by his contradictions. In "Samaritan Snare" Picard tells Wesley about the incident that caused him to require an artificial heart (the significance of which, for a man so invested in controlling his emotions, is surely obvious), in which, as a young cadet, he picked a fight with three Naussicans twice his size. Picard tells the story as one of a hard lesson well learned, a punishment for his arrogance and devil-may-care attitude, an experience that taught him to buckle down, as well as a bit of humility. But in "Tapestry," when Q gives Picard the chance to undo the fight altogether, to become that more humble, more serious man he thinks he needed to be ahead of schedule, the result is a small, grey life as a mid-ranking science officer. The lesson of "Tapestry" is that it takes the two men—the adventurer who laughs in the face of danger, and the thoughtful, reserved nerd, who on their own are just a silly child and a stodgy old man—to make Jean-Luc Picard.
What I did not consider in 2011, but which seems glaringly obvious fifteen years later, was how essential Picard's inherent contradictions were to his brand of leadership, which imprinted on so many young viewers like myself. He was a captain who possessed immense power, but understood that the essence of strength was in knowing when not to use it. He felt deeply, including on behalf of the oppressed and downtrodden, but knew better than to act purely out of emotion, without thought and consideration. He understood that his authority conferred obligation far more than privilege. And for all that, he was capable of laughing at himself, and recognizing when he had been made ridiculous. It should go without saying that we are short of leaders like that in the real world, but even on screen—including the more recent iterations of Star Trek—they are increasingly unfashionable. If Jean-Luc Picard was a product of Cold War liberalism, a Hornblower-esque vision of an officer who was not just a gentleman but an enlightened leader, today's Gen X and Millennial screenwriters seem to find characters of his type boring and even inhuman. But, to paraphrase another Star Trek captain, speaking about another iconic character, it is hard to imagine someone more human than Captain Picard.
After leaving Star Trek, Stewart attained an even greater fame playing Professor Charles Xavier in the X-Men movies, bringing a similar gravitas and paternal warmth to that character as he had to Picard (his reprise of that role in the upcoming Avengers: Doomsday will probably be his final screen appearance). Despite embodying two such iconic pop culture figures, the rest of Stewart's career is something of a grab-bag. He was never nominated for an Emmy or an Oscar—though I will always maintain that he deserved the latter, at least, for his performance in Logan (2017), in which he deliberately undercuts the dignity and force of his previous appearances, transforming Professor X into a frail, querulous old man in a losing battle with dementia. Aside from celebrated recorded performances of various Shakespearean productions—Hamlet, starring David Tennant, in 2009; The Hollow Crown in 2012—he never got the sort of "serious" starring role that everyone knew he could shoulder.
Instead, Patrick Stewart's career can summed up in a series of memes and moments. A wordless appearance as KGB spymaster Karla in the 1979 miniseries Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, in which he somehow conveyed power and menace in a few silent moments. The indelible image of loyal-retainer-turned-mercenary Gurney Halleck crying in triumph as he leads soldiers into battle while clutching a small pug dog in David Lynch's Dune (1984). Memorable guest appearances on Frasier, The Simpsons, and Family Guy. He was a surprisingly gifted comedic performer, willing to give himself over to absurdity in everything from Mel Brooks's Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993) to Riz Ahmed's Bait (2026), in which he played an exaggerated version of himself as a disembodied voice emanating from a frozen pig's head, berating Ahmed for his presumption in trying out for the role of James Bond. And he routinely elevated material that in other hands would have been cheesy or just banal; I have fond memories of him in Hallmark's TV movie The Caterville Ghost (1996), and although it has been overshadowed by Michael Caine and the Muppets, his version of A Christmas Carol (1999) is also excellent (he would later take the story on stage, in a performance in which he played all forty roles). Though I have not seen the two non-Picard, non-Professor X performances that a lot of reminiscences of Stewart have been citing, in Jeremy Saulnier's Green Room (2015), and Christopher Ashley's Jeffrey (1995), it's notable that these are both roles in which Stewart gleefully played against type, as a vicious white supremacist, and a campy gay man.
For myself, the non-SF Stewart performance that I like to remember is the Starz series Blunt Talk (2015-2016), in which he played a character who felt like a twist on his most famous roles, a respected news presenter whose on-screen gravitas is punctured, behind the scenes, by fathoms-deep vanity. But, like Jean-Luc Picard, Harry Blunt was a study in contradictions. However much he failed to live up to the person he played on screen, he was still possessed of a deep love of life, a curiosity about anything new and different, and an openness to new experiences that made him seem lovable, and even wise, despite his often childish antics.
That same love of life seemed to emanate from the real man as well. Off screen, Stewart was a tireless activist for a variety of causes, from victims to domestic violence, to LGBT+ rights, to fostering pit bulls. But he was also a man who enjoyed what fame and fortune had brought to him, and made you feel that joy yourself: in a 2013 Halloween message in which he lies in a bathtub, clothed head-to-toe in a bright red lobster costume; in encounters with fans at the stage door or at conventions; in the myriad photographs of his epic bromance with McKellen. Like Jean-Luc Picard, Stewart seemed to contain multitudes; serious about his craft and not at all serious about himself; down for just about anything, no matter how cheesy or silly, and good in just about everything; able to speak urgently about important topics, and fervently about delightful ones. His most fitting epitaph is the one that Picard gives, from Hamlet, to Brent Spiner's Data when he believes that his friend has been lost: "He was a man, take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again."
Comments
Post a Comment