Editor’s note: The wonderful actress and teacher Marian Seldes died this week at age 86. For an intimate look at a legend, Post theater columnist Michael Riedel reached out to someone who knew her well. Here’s what Academy Award winner and “House of Cards” star Kevin Spacey recalls of his beloved acting teacher.



There I was in September 1979 at the corner of 55th Street and Seventh Avenue, a few days before my first classes at the Juilliard School of Drama. I’d just left Los Angeles, where I’d tried to start a career in television after high school by auditioning for programs like “The Gong Show.” Thankfully, that career path never took off.

Standing next to me that brisk fall day was my best friend from high school, Val Kilmer. Now in his third year at Juilliard, he’d encouraged me to audition — if I was serious about wanting a career in the theater. I was and I did, and was very fortunate to be chosen as one of 28 students of the new class, Group 12.

As we waited for the Walk/Don’t Walk sign to change, Val suddenly said, “Do you see that woman over there in purple?” Standing directly across the street was a tall, elegant woman, looking around with excitement, as if it were her first day in New York City — not mine — dressed in purple from head to toe.

“That’s Marian Seldes,” Val said. “She’s going to be your first Shakespeare teacher. Wanna meet her?”

So we crossed the street, and there on that corner I was introduced to Marian Seldes.

Upon hearing that I was to be one of her new students, her reaction, as I later learned, was typically theatrical and very memorable: She grabbed my face with both hands, squeezed my cheeks like a peach and, in the most dramatic tone, said, “My little bird.”

She then turned and flitted across the street, without ever looking for oncoming traffic.

Val turned to me and said, “God has his finger on her head and just guides her through life. A cab’ll never hit her. She’s a force of nature.”

What a force, indeed. She believed in her students. She believed in all her students.

She reveled in their challenges, inspirations and aspirations, and her dedication to them was endless — it never stopped, not even after class was over, or if a student graduated or was even kicked out of the “Yard,” as we called it.

Only after I left school did I realize the depth of her commitment and the impact of her dedication.

For quite some time, I didn’t have an agent or money or a job or even prospects. But whenever I did manage to get some awful off-off-off-off-off-Broadway gig, there she was — beaming, in the front row — as I did some monologue in some terrible play, or tackled some obscure piece at a dance space on 13th Street.

I can honestly tell you that for the first four to five years of my career in the theater, Marian would somehow find out what I was doing, and where, and just show up.

She was always there, pushing you on. That infectious smile when she greeted you backstage, as she enveloped you into her arms like some sort of rag doll; her seriousness in talking about your work; the notes she’d give you in a diner later on; the stories she would share about her own theatrical beginnings.

Her very presence gave you hope.

Her dedication breathed life into your efforts; her belief in your talent allowed you to think you might have a future.

She was always there, pushing you on … Her very presence gave you hope.

This is the work of a true teacher, one who knows that a young person needs encouragement when times are tough. Sometimes, an adult you admire (or even secretly worship) can say just the right words, at just the right time — and give you everything you need.

And at that moment, it’s not about a job or money: It’s the feeling that comes when you believe in yourself, because that beautiful mentor was there when you needed her.

And so, as we say goodbye to the Guinness Book of World Records legend that was Marian Seldes, all of us who were her students and who have been lucky enough to build careers thank her for giving us wings and teaching us all how to fly.

Many of us have flown far higher than we ever thought we could, because all of us were her little birds.