Alan Rickman - Five years later
Today marks five years since Alan Rickman’s death. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long.
Below is the journal entry I shared on Facebook when I learned of his death.
I also want to share my favorite personal memory of Mr. Rickman. During one of our trips to see him in the Broadway play, Seminar, in 2012, my friend Sherry and I went to see Mr. Rickman do a reading of Charles Dickens at a church in midtown. After the reading, while walking back to our hotel, we came upon him at a street corner. He was talking to a woman (whose name escapes me now but she was someone in "the business"). Sherry and I skidded to a halt and just watched them, probably clutching each others’ arms. When they parted ways, instead of continuing on and crossing the street, he stepped into a nearby bodega.
Now, I'm not proud of this moment, but deciding that day would be the day I became a stalker, I went into the store too. Sherry too. I grabbed something random to buy and stood in line to pay. With Alan Rickman. Just stood there with him. Him, with his legitimate food and drink. Me, with my random stalker purchase. I said nothing to him and did my best to act nonchalant. He bought his items and left. Then I bought my item and left. And that was that.
Or so I thought.
Later that same night, outside the theatre after Seminar let out, Mr. Rickman stopped to sign playbills for fans. When he reached me, he stood there in front of me, signing my playbill, towering over me. At least it felt like he towered over me. (I’ve also stood shoulder to shoulder with 5’5 Al Pacino and, at 5’9, felt tiny in comparison.) As he signed, his eyes drifted to me once, twice over the edge of the playbill, a smirk forming at his lips. As he finished signing, he said to me, in that voice, "You... look........ familiar” and handed the playbill back to me.
Sherry snapped this photo of me a few seconds before the incident.
See, I was wearing the same jacket and scarf as I was wearing in the bodega. My nonchalance there, it seemed, was not so great, and I was busted. I guffawed like a nincompoop and just stared at him.
He stood there a few more torturous moments, his smirk deepening, and then he quietly moved on to the next fan who probably hadn’t stalked him into a bodega earlier in the day.
And that is my favorite (and only) personal memory of Alan Rickman.
Journal entry: January 14, 2016
I lay in bed Sunday night, gripped by sudden anxiety at the realization that all of my idols are growing older. I don’t know what sparked the fit. For hours, I contemplated what my older years would be like, by when surely these people would be gone from this world. It frightened me. I imagined those years as hopelessly lonely and uninspired without them.
Those years have arrived sooner than I feared.
I woke with the world Monday morning to the news that David Bowie had passed away. This morning, we learned that Alan Rickman has joined him. It seems perhaps the Universe had been trying to cushion the blows to come this week.
Some believe it’s silly to mourn the loss of an artist; somebody you didn’t know personally. “They’re only human” or “lots of people die. It’s no sadder than anyone else dying.” And, of course that’s true.
But that’s also the point, isn’t it? They’re only human yet somehow manage to transcend humanity to inspire the countless masses who desperately need it. I’ve known personal loss. In my life, I’ve chosen fantasy and imagination when the real world was too painful to deal with. For as long as I can remember, I’ve turned to books and movies and music to find the words that would make it all better again. I’ve never been a fan of life as it is. I only want to know everything it could be. Writers, rock stars and actors have helped me move on and thrive when nobody else even knew everything was not okay.
I knew of him before Professor Snape. I’d seen him in Die Hard, of course. I’m sure I’d seen him in other films too but it was Professor Snape that put Alan Rickman on the map for me. For that reason, he will always be Snape to me.
In 2012, I was fortunate enough to see him on stage on Broadway in the play, Seminar. It was a defining moment of my life, not only witnessing his talent in person, but witnessing the dedication to his fans that stood outside the theatre after the play, hoping for a glimpse of the man as he walked to his waiting car. Not only did he wave and smile, he greeted every single one of us out there, each and every night. We numbered in the hundreds. He spoke with and signed autographs for us all, paying close attention to the little ones who were there to see their Professor Snape. He rarely spoke about Professor Snape in interviews. I think he didn’t want to ruin the story for the little ones who hadn’t yet read it, and all those in future generations to come. Yet for those children in the crowd those nights, he obliged them, and then some. He was quiet, humble, gracious and kind, yet such an absolute force. To stand near him was to know you were in the presence of something great.
In the years since, I’ve seen most of his films and I’m ashamed it took so long for me to understand his brilliance. He inspired me to become a screenwriter. He’s the reason I started, and finished, my first script. It was a dream to someday watch him speak my words on the big screen, to watch him speak my words as only he could have done. It would have been the greatest honor of my life.
Rest in peace, if that’s the way it must be. It isn’t right, though. It isn’t fair. This world still needs you. I can only think that the Universe needed inspiration for its newest stars to take both you and Mr. Bowie from us in the same week.
Goodbye and thank you, sweet man.
“If people want to know who I am, it is all in the work.” ~ Alan Rickman
