Maggie Smith helped redefine what it means to grow old, especially for women

A day I have been dreading is upon us: Dame Maggie Smith has died.

She was, of course, 89 years old and spent much of her last acting years playing women who were confronted with the inevitable: her iconic Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess from “Downton Abbey,” confesses in the first sequel film that she is ill and dies second. Reformed racist Muriel Donnelly of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel bids a loving farewell to those she supported at The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. In “The Lady in the Van,” the tragedy of Smith’s smelly squatter Mary Shepherd is revealed only after her surprisingly touching death. And while the disabled Lily Fox survives “The Miracle Club,” Smith’s final film, she does so with a late reconciliation sparked by a visit to Lourdes.

So she said a long goodbye to all of us, Maggie Smith. Her career spanned seven decades; two centuries; Stage, screen and television and virtually every genre, from Shakespeare to Harry Potter, and their brilliance never waned. Regardless of the general state of the project she found herself in, Smith always failed to enlighten, amaze, and entertain.

Read more: Critic’s Notebook: Maggie Smith, the Great

After watching “The Miracle Club,” I looked up how old she was – my job has a sinister habit of keeping track of pre-written obituaries – and I could practically hear her say in that wry, truthful growl: “Not for long.”

Still, it is a seismic event, a bitter shock: if anyone were to live forever, it would be Maggie Smith.

Who else would have had the audacity to admit unapologetically that she had never seen Downton Abbey, even though she “owned the box”? Who else would accuse British National Treasurer (and good friend) Judi Dench of stealing all the good things from women her age in the documentary Tea With the Dames? (“Don’t antagonize me,” Dench says, laughing. “I’ll antagonize you,” Smith replies with a sideways glance. “Now it’s all coming to light.”) Who else could produce the same insulted boldness? to a homeless woman living in an indescribably dirty van while she has to attend a parade of aristocrats and celebrities, divas and fluttering single ladies.

It was far too easy to imagine Smith raising an eyebrow at the specter of death and, after a moment of indignant silence, declaring that the timing was far too bad.

The loss of our idols, no matter how old they are, is always a form of heartbreak – the world was certainly a richer, more vibrant place with Maggie Smith, and now it isn’t. In many ways, she helped redefine what it means to grow old, especially for women. The face and body may change, but the spirit need not waver, the desire and ability to do what you love need never diminish.

I didn’t have a chance to see her on stage, but on screens big and small she was unwavering and elastic: the bright if misguided passions of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie,” the desperate wit of the heartbreaking star of “California Suite,” the hesitant, half-hearted tyranny of the companion in “A Room With a View,” the wishy-washy snobbery of the impoverished relatives in “Gosford Park” – honestly, you could go on (and so on). In later life she often complained about her frequent appearances in period pieces, but her roles defy category except the fact that once she played them, they belonged entirely to her, the Maggie Smith genre.

Read more: In a career of remarkable versatility, Maggie Smith revealed that theatricality is a way of life

It’s become absurdly common for people who should know better to say that it was the “Harry Potter” franchise and “Downton Abbey” that won Smith, who has already won two Oscars, a Tony and an Emmy, and seven BAFTAs brought international fame, as At least in the case of “Downton” it was the other way around.

It’s hard to imagine that “Downton,” despite its exquisite historical plot, solid cast, and deft script, would have achieved astounding hit status without Smith at its center. As the sharp-tongued Dowager Countess of Grantham, she was Downton’s superpower – she could freeze a room with a look, break your heart with a shrug and sum up the show’s entire theme in just four words – “What’s a week?”End?” She was funny, she was impressive, and she held the audience in the palm of her hand like she held the family. Other main characters might come and go, but without a regular dose of Smith’s Violet, Downton wouldn’t exist.

Smith, who often claimed that she had never seen the show and found the rigors of filming, not to mention the burden of all those tasks, exhausting, had by the end of her career earned a reputation for being, if not difficult, at least entirely sure to be intimidating on set.

In Tea With the Dames, some of this is evident when she turns away a photographer on set, complains about uncomfortable seats, or describes her often contentious relationship with Laurence Olivier during her time at the National Theater. During one performance, Olivier told her that she delivered her lines so slowly that it “bored him off stage.” During the next show, she said, she spoke so quickly that “he didn’t know if it was Wednesday or Christmas.” … I really threw him off.” He startled her, she said, but “I think I scared him to death from time to time.”

But there’s also a moment where she and Dench are asked if the first few days on set are still scary. “All days are scary,” Smith says immediately. “I don’t know why people assume it’s different. Filming is very scary because so many people are involved. Everyone waits with bated breath, and if you misunderstand something, there’s a lot of silence, we look at each other, our eyes roll and then,” she sighs dramatically, “are we really leaving again?”

It’s pretty difficult to imagine someone rolling their eyes or sighing when Maggie Smith did something wrong, almost as difficult as imagining such an event actually happening. That’s how good she was as an actress. Whatever she did, she hit the perfect note with such certainty that it seems outrageous to even think it could be the result of multiple takes.

So one can only assume that Maggie Smith’s death only happened because she allowed it to happen.

“Dead?” Her homeless Mary Shepherd protests against Alex Jennings’ concerned Alan Bennett in “The Lady in the Van.” “You’ll know when I’m dead.”

Now, as nations mourn and tributes pile up, as her work is praised, characterized, and categorized, as we grapple with the fact that we will never have the chance to see what she would have done next, we certainly do Case.

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This story originally appeared in the Los Angeles Times.