It’s hard to describe the magnitude of the loss of Alan Mandell, an actor whose legacy extends beyond the memory of his many fine performances on our stages. For decades, he was, quite simply and quite profoundly, the heart of Los Angeles’ theater community.
Mandell, who died Tuesday at his home in Westwood at 98, made the most of his golden years, which was the period of his life when I knew him, first as someone who wrote about him and later, after he entered what was an extraordinarily active period of retirement, as the recipient of his warm friendship.
During COVID, he and his great friend, Phyllis Moberly, who had left her post at Center Theatre Group’s publicity department, drove by my home to sing “Happy Birthday,” knowing that I was suffering, as all of us were, from the alienation of those social-distancing times.
Mandell was a gatherer, someone who brought people together. His compact, architecturally stunning house, the home he downsized to from the Brentwood property where he raised his family, was a showcase for his dazzling art collection. It was also a meeting place for show people and anyone committed to the theater’s long-term flourishing.
He was a philanthropist, with a discerning eye for talent. He didn’t talk much to me about this activity, but I learned about it from artists who had benefited from his support and knew that there were plenty of theater folks vying to be on the receiving end of his beneficence.
Mandell’s wife, Elizabeth Heller Mandell, a gallery owner, nonprofit consultant and arts patron from a prominent California family, predeceased him, leaving him in a position to extend her philanthropic work. But I don’t think he thought of it as work. Rather, it was an act of cultural community, pursued with unusual intelligence, judgment and taste.
I interviewed Mandell, whom I first saw on stage in the 2006 Mark Taper Forum revival of Anton Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard,” when he was in rehearsals for Arthur Miller’s “The Price”at the Taper in 2015. He was playing Gregory Solomon, in what he said would likely be his last stage role. He joked that he was two years younger than the 89-year-old character and hoped that the Taper had “a good makeup person.”
After showing me around the work of art that was his Westwood home, he gave me a guided tour of his life and career. Born in Canada in 1927, Mandell was a child of the Great Depression. He discovered his calling as a schoolboy in Toronto, but he would wear many hats in the theater before he was in a position to dedicate himself wholly to acting.
His big adult break happened when visiting his sister in San Francisco in 1954. Looking for a place to work on scenes with other actors, he discovered the newly formed San Francisco Actor’s Workshop, the experimental company founded by Herbert Blau and Jules Irving that at that point was housed in a converted garage.
Eventually, after proving himself indispensable, Mandell would be appointed business manager. The theater quickly turned into a West Coast powerhouse, producing trailblazing work, including the plays of Brecht, Beckett and Pinter. A lifelong love affair was ignited with Beckett, leading Mandell to co-found the San Quentin Drama Workshop with Rick Cluchey.
Beckett was the cornerstone of their work in the prison, and it was through Cluchey that Mandell formed a relationship with the Irish writer, who directed him in “Waiting for Godot” and “Endgame” in Europe. It was an artistic connection that would transform Mandell’s life and work.
Signs of this history were on display amid all the adventurous modern art that made Mandell’s home seem like an elegant, circus-like wonderland. A photo of Beckett greeted visitors on their way to the bathroom, where a Certificate of Appreciation from the California State Prison hung discreetly on the way.
The commendation thanked Mandell for making the San Quentin Drama Workshop “the dedicated and creative community that it is today” and acknowledged his “professionalism and broad humanity” — qualities that anyone who has ever spent any time with Mandell would know aren’t empty words.
When Blau and Irving left to run the Repertory Theatre of Lincoln Center, Mandell joined them as their general manager. After that chapter ended, he came to L.A. to assist Irving, who was working as a producer on the 1976 TV film version of “Dark Victory,” and made the city his home.
Following his wife’s advice, he decided to prioritize acting. He limited his arts administration work to that of “consultant director,” a title he held at Los Angeles Actors’ Theatre and Los Angeles Theatre Center, where he inaugurated the Poetry Literary Series. Acting was his guiding passion, but his deep love for the avant-garde helped till the ground for the city’s theatrical renaissance that the 1984 Olympic Arts Festival catalyzed.
Mandell defied pigeonholing throughout his life. He put the lie to the idea that actors only act and administrators only administrate. He also proved that a performer’s best can come in the autumn and winter of their careers. (Even after he supposedly retired, he was popping up in a Taylor Mac extravaganza, working on a pilot project with the great Norman Lear and making a podcast series with John Cameron Mitchell.)
At 79, he was just hitting his prime, playing a crotchety 81-year-old former Nuremberg judge in Joanna McClelland Glass’ “Trying”at the Colony Theatre in Burbank. F. Kathleen Foley described Mandell’s portrayal in The Times as “a marvel — one of the five best performances you will see in this lifetime.”
Cameron Watson, who directed “Trying” at the Colony, shared in an email his thoughts on what set Mandell apart as an actor: “Alan works with great precision. He also works from a place of great truth. Every moment he crafted was specific, intentional, and purposeful, yet he grounded it all in staggering honesty. His acting became invisible. He simply existed. Add to that Alan’s wry, wicked sense of humor and his whip-smart charm, and you get an experience of a lifetime working with a master of the craft. I was the lucky one.”
My memories of Mandell return to Beckett, to his performance as Estragon opposite Irish actor Barry McGovern’s Vladimir in the 2012 Mark Taper Forum revival of “Waiting for Godot,” directed by Michael Arabian. These two Beckett veterans endowed the physical comedy with lyrical moonlight in a production that glowed with hard-earned existential truth.
Mandell never let his artistic seriousness stand in the way of his silliness. Indeed, his philosophical and playful sides nourished each other, just as they did for Beckett.
His eye for visual art was matched by his ear for music, another quality of Beckett’s that he shared. Yes, he could even sing. And until advanced age intervened, tap-dancing was his preferred form of exercise.
Mandell was himself an embodiment of the “Gesamtkunstwerk,” the Wagnerian ideal of the integrated art work. He was open to the serendipitous interplay of interdisciplinary influences because he recognized that artistic freedom isn’t born out of chaos but rather is the product of discrete and highly disciplined forms.
In his friendships, Mandell imposed a restraint that made possible the free flow of emotional generosity. There was no unseemly sharing or intrusive questioning in the meals I had him with over the years. But I nonetheless felt more deeply known after each encounter and more grateful for the time spent in his gracious company.
It turned out that “The Price” wasn’t his last stage appearance. The following year he directed and starred in a revival of Beckett’s “Endgame”at the Kirk Douglas Theatre, playing Hamm opposite the Clov of his wily Beckett partner, McGovern.
Actor John Sloan, who served as assistant director on “Endgame” and appeared on stage with him in Pinter’s “No Man’s Land”at the Odyssey, recalled in an email what made Mandell such a special collaborator.
“I loved working with Alan because he reminded me of the fun to be had in challenging conventions and making mischief,” Sloane wrote. “There was almost a twinkle in the eye of all these tyrannical characters he so excelled at playing. By bringing the work of Reza Abdoh and Samuel Beckett to Los Angeles stages, he makes sure we don’t get too comfortable. Of course, he does it all in the sweetest way — it’s really Alan who has the twinkle in his eye that shines brightest when he’s stirring things up.”
In the cast of that production — a rare opportunity to see this difficult and daring modern classic at a prominent local venue — was his great friend Charlotte Rae, an accomplished Beckett veteran herself, who was 90 when she lowered herself into a trash can to play Nell opposite James Greene’s similarly binned Nagg.
I visited Mandell at his home on Monday. He was unable to speak many words, but he listened with rapt attention to the conversation of the few theater friends who had gathered around his bed. I couldn’t help noticing that he looked like a figure in a Beckett play. It was Mandell’s performances that helped me see the realism — the radical human vulnerability — amid the absurdity of “Waiting for Godot” and “Endgame.”
As I said goodbye, he made a writing gesture to me, as if to say, “Continue doing what you do.” And how could I do otherwise with the grace notes of his art right before me when I close my eyes?
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