Postscript: Leonard Nimoy

Leonard Nimoy as Spock.Photograph: AF Archive / Alamy

When I heard, this afternoon, that Leonard Nimoy had died—he was eighty-three—the first thing that came to mind wasn’t Mr. Spock but the Leonard Nimoy Thalia Theatre, which is at Ninety-fifth and Broadway, a few blocks from my apartment. I pass the theatre nearly every day; it hosts films, readings, and musical events. It was built in 1931; in “Annie Hall,” Alvy and Annie go there to watch “The Sorrow and the Pity.” (“Citizenfour” is showing there now.) Nimoy helped fund a renovation that was finished in 2002, and, when you see his name on the marquee, you feel good about humanity.

Spock always played against type. He was supposed to be cold and logical, but he ended up being funny, angry, passionate, loyal, dangerous—even, from time to time, seductive. The same was true of Nimoy. It was a great pleasure to see an actor you’d loved for so long branch out in such surprising ways, writing poetry, recording (terrible) albums, publishing (beautiful) photographs, directing “Three Men and a Baby.” He was always recognizable, with his rich voice, craggy face, and gentle manner, even as he explored new enthusiasms. Some people seem to transform through life, throwing off older, outdated versions of themselves. Nimoy set a different example: he grew, in a slow, natural, and unpretentious way, more capacious.

Even if he’d wanted to put on airs, of course, it would’ve been hard. He was tethered—chained, in some ways—to “Star Trek.” How good was “Star Trek”? Just consider how much goofiness its excellence had to overcome. Every now and then, I’ll watch a few episodes, as one does. You’re struck, first, by the number of jokes that Spock makes. (He’s his own straight man.) And then by the dissonance between the absurdity of how he looks, in his powder-blue T-shirt and fake ears, and the eloquence of what he says. “Change is the essential process of all existence,” he advises. “Insufficient facts always invite danger,” he warns. “Beauty is transitory.” (“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Spock,” Kirk replies. “Beauty survives.”)

Even Spock’s gestures combined solemnity with silliness. When he steals up, catlike, behind his prey, and then strikes with his Vulcan nerve pinch, you can’t help but laugh over the inevitable horns-and-strings musical cue. It’s like half a massage. (The notion is that Spock communicates psychic energy through his fingertips, delivering a kind of electrical shock.) Nimoy came up with the idea for the pinch; he thought that a big sidewinder punch would be beneath Spock. His character, in retrospect, wasn’t just devoted to logic; dignity was important to him. Kirk looks good but lacks dignity; he’s a bro. Spock looks silly, but he’s always deliberate and composed. His journey depends, ultimately, on the discovery that emotion can be both strong and dignified. In my family, this aspect of Spock’s character—along with his religious gesture of blessing—made him an object of Jewish pride. (Needless to say, he was also an object of nerd pride: “Long before being nerdy was cool, there was Leonard Nimoy,” President Obama wrote, in a statement released today. “I loved Spock.”)

A turning point, for a lot of fans, was “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan,” in which Spock says to Kirk, “I have been, and always shall be, your friend.” After that, there was a companionable, friendly mellowness to Spock. (It’s well in evidence in Nimoy’s performances in the two “Star Trek” movies made by J. J. Abrams.) Spock became a little meta: we knew that he was an actor, just a big softie at heart. When it was revealed, halfway through the recent science-fiction series “Fringe,” that the show’s villain, William Bell, was played by Nimoy—previously, he’d been a shadowy and unseen figure—it was hard not to associate him with Spock and, therefore, to suspect that his apparent coldness was just a front. He seemed creepy, but so had Spock; appearances can be deceiving. Nimoy played a man whose mask had slipped, and that lent a sense of intimacy to his relationship with his audience.

How real was that sense? We didn’t really know Nimoy any more than we know any public figure, but it seemed reasonably real. On various occasions, Nimoy suggested that playing Spock had shaped him; after writing a memoir called “I Am Not Spock,” he wrote another called “I Am Spock.” And his own sensibility, it seems safe to say, informed the character. In his last tweet, Nimoy wrote, Spock-like, “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP.” (That’s “Live long and prosper.”) Actors are sometimes imagined as shapeshifters, but, with a few exceptions, Nimoy didn’t really shift. He was given one way of seeming—measured, cerebral, serious, dignified, wry, and slightly naughty—and he showed, over a long career, how rewarding that combination could be. He proved the value of accepting, cultivating, and enjoying one’s own nature. May we all do the same with the selves that we have.