Talent Far Grander Than Her Commonly Recalled Role

I read The Times’ obituary on Jan. 10 regarding the passing of Nancy Parsons. She was a very dear and close friend, and I should like to add a few words. . . .

The headline read: “Nancy Parsons; Played Gym Teacher in ‘Porky’s.’ ” She would have hated that. Her appearances in Bob Clark’s 1981 lowbrow comedy and its sequels were a source of embarrassment for Nancy, although she was grateful for the work, which provided college tuition for her daughters.

As a playwright-director in L.A. for nearly two decades, I take pride in knowing, and being able to attract with my work, the very best actors this city has to offer. However, more often than not, for whatever reason, these remarkably talented individuals are usually not highly successful as commercial actors. Or perhaps to state it better, not as commercially viable as their exceptional gifts would lead those uninitiated in the twisted ways of the industry to expect. They assume talent is what it’s all about. Sadly, this is not the reality. Were it so, the passing of Nancy Parsons would have been shouted as front-page news in huge type. Her talent was of that stature.

I once conducted seminars for actors on the realities of the business. Talent, I assured them, is a dispensable commodity in building a career. Luck is not. Most individuals, I went on to explain, including casting agents, producers and directors, are clueless as to what “talent” even is.

There are methods for discerning “true talent,” I assured them. “True talent” possesses staying power. It remains with you.

At which point I’d call for a show of hands from those who had seen a “Porky’s” film. Inevitably hands sprang up. “Tell me,” I directed at this group, “about the character of Cavanaugh. Recall something for me about the characters of Meat or Pee Wee.” I always paused for answers; none was ever furnished. Finally I’d ask, “Well, does anyone remember Beulah Balbricker?” A clatter of replies erupted, as I knew it would. “Oh yeah, her!” “The gym teacher!” “That time with the snake in the toilet!” “Man, she was funny!”

Like I said, staying power.

The bulk of Nancy’s film work, unfortunately, is forgettable. “Honky Tonk Freeway,” “Motel Hell,” “Homer and Eddie.” It was the stage where Nancy’s superb abilities were most compellingly expressed, and from where her presence could devour an audience.

My first encounter with Nancy was at a performance of Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles,” adapted and staged at the El Rey. Nancy served as the play’s “voice,” portraying no less than the embodiment of the universe itself, whose task it was to weave the play’s separate tales into a greater unity. We sat, the audience and I, enthralled, with none of us doubting in the least that when she spoke we were listening to echoes from off the stars. During its run, I dropped in on the second act a dozen times, and always I was bedazzled by Nancy, who fired me with an awe of live theater that stills burns hot to this day.

Years later we met as members of the same theater company. She became an ardent supporter of my works, and whenever I sought her participation in my plays she extended it with all enthusiasm. I tend to write sweeping dramas, containing characters so large they dwarf most actors who attempt them. Not Nancy, however. I never wrote a role that her great soul couldn’t encompass. Frankly, I don’t believe any playwright ever has.

Once I tried desperately to find funding for a production of “Medea” featuring Nancy. The images I conjured up of her portrayal spurred me into a frenzied effort. The rejections I came up against would excuse manslaughter. “Media? Isn’t that some old play?” “Nancy Parsons? She’s a comic actress. Some crazed lady chopping up her children isn’t funny!”

I would have continued still, but time was against us. Nancy’s health, never good, forced her from undertaking major roles on stage.

After she moved to Wisconsin to be near her daughter and grandchild, we kept in touch. I would call. Not as often as now I wish I had. At 58, Nancy is gone and the world seems smaller for the loss. I shall treasure her praise and support, and draw a deeper joy from knowing that Nancy, who did not suffer fools lightly, considered me her friend.

Now I have only my memories of her. Memories of her vast and glorious talent. Memories of the greatest Medea that never was.

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Ernest Kearney is a playwright and director whose works include “The Little Boy Who Loved Monsters,” “Among the Vipers” and “Urned Happiness.” He lives in L.A.