Island
Living 28: A Good Thought for Andy Sipowicz
by A. D.
Coleman |
|
It was easy
to mourn the “death,” in the winter of
1998, of Bobby Simone, the sweet-eyed detective
who passed away prematurely of heart failure on
NYPD Blue.
For those who
watch this series regulary, Simone (played by Jimmy
Smits) was the obvious hero: big, hunky, tender-hearted,
caring, loving, miraculously uncompromised and uncontaminated
by the frequent vileness of his work. He was a generous-spirited,
affectionate, hot-blooded, slow-handed, overgrown
boy, still raising pigeons in coops on the roof,
watching out for his old mentor Patsy and his emotionally
disturbed weasel of a tenant, consoling his ever-neurotic,
recovering-alcoholic wife Diane, gallant to women,
kind to children and animals, helping little old
ladies across the street -- a blend of Eagle Scout
and the punchy Marlon Brando of On the Waterfront.
What was there not to love? What was there not to
mourn?
Contrast him
with his partner, Andy Sipowicz (brilliantly portrayed
by Dennis Franz), and you can see why Bobby’s
admirers grieved. Not only is Andy Sipowicz not
presently a nice man, there’s no evidence he
ever was one. He’s fully capable of turning
into a raging asshole at the drop of a hat. Until
he met his second wife, the assistant district attorney
Sylvia Costas (Sharon Lawrence), the only other
creatures for whom he seemed willing to take responsibility
were his partners on the job and a dozen or so expensive
tropical fish.
Sipowicz is
abrasive, blunt, tactless, rude, homely, balding,
dumpy, and utterly lacking in any sense of style.
Though he has the grudging professional respect
of his colleagues and his boss (James McDaniel in
the role of the African American Sgt. Arthur Fancy),
no one but his wife Sylvia seems to want to spend
any more time with him than is absolutely necessary.
No one else finds him likeable, much less lovable,
not to mention sexy -- and that quirk of taste is
the only thing that could make you question the
judgment of this otherwise smart, savvy, perceptive
woman he married.
Which, in turn,
is what made me look again at Andy Sipowicz, during
that phase in the series some years ago when he
and Sylvia Costas came together. They were a comparatively
unlikely couple: she -- executive-level, in her
prime -- surely could have done better than this
middle-aged, mean ex-drunk rolling along on a slow
train to nowhere. What did she see in this jerk
that she’d choose him as her husband and the
father of her child?
Sylvia was no
sister of mercy, and no enabler either; she stopped
Andy’s abusive tendencies in their tracks every
time, consistently telling him to shape up or ship
out. He’s not the first man to be redeemed
by the love of a good woman, but Sylvia’s wasn’t
maternal or unconditional love; it was a grown woman’s
tough love, and it proved to be just what Andy needed.
But she needed
him too, not just as a devoted partner but as a
reality check. There was a telling moment in their
relationship that occurred as they were preparing
for their wedding. (The episode, titled "The
Bookie and Kooky Cookie," first aired on May
9, 1995.) They’d agreed to be married by the
Greek Orthodox priest who’d been Sylvia’s
spiritual guide since her childhood, and they’d
gone to his office for the traditional pre-nuptial
counseling. On the preliminary form he was asked
to fill out, Andy left blank the answers to various
questions concerning the state of his religious
beliefs, and was even less than usually loquacious
when the kindly, well-intentioned priest -- in a
one-on-one conversation without Sylvia present --
sought to open up those issues for discussion.
Eventually,
Father Kankarides accepted Andy’s terse, monosyllabic
responses and silences on those subjects, gave the
couple his blessing, and sent them home to prepare
for their wedding. That evening, Sylvia probed Andy,
delicately, about that interview. Reluctantly, Andy
told her about a case he’d once solved. To
make a short story even shorter, it concerned the
mysterious disappearance of a two-year-old child
whose dissembling parents could not admit that the
father had brutalized the infant so thoroughly that
it had died, and had then commanded their guard
dog to devour it -- which animal, in turn, had to
be killed and dissected on Andy’s command and
under his direct supervision in order to obtain
the necessary evidence of the crime.
Andy told this
ghastly tale simply, without embellishment, but
it was clear to the viewer -- and to Sylvia -- that
he’d stared long and hard into the heart of
darkness, had come to live with the horror. At the
end of the scene, Sylvia put her arms around him
from behind. Andy said of the priest -- not angrily,
not mockingly, just resignedly, as one speaks of
those who’ve led hopelessly sheltered lives
-- “That priest wanted to know if I’ve
lost my faith.” He paused, then clumsily patted
Sylvia’s hands, telling her, “I got faith
in you.”
That, I think,
is the key to Andy Sipowicz. He’s your average
citizen, reeling from the pummeling of this culture’s
terrible contradictions, trying to stave off disaster
with nothing more than a badge, a gun, and a fundamental
sense of right and wrong. He looks, not infrequently,
like a trapped and frightened animal preparing to
fight yet uncertain how to go about it -- not an
experienced predator but a cornered marsupial, a
koala bear with nowhere left to hide. He seethes
with anger, and not infrequently lets it spill over
onto the innocent people around him, including his
co-workers and even his beloved wife. But he knows
they deserve better, and though he doesn’t
apologize gracefully or easily he does apologize,
always, and he makes you know he means it. He takes
full responsibility for himself and his actions,
makes amends for his failures past and present,
tries to keep a clean slate, and never goes easy
on himself.
He works hard
at his job, a dirty job at best, and he’s very
good at it. He knows his own limitations and weaknesses,
but trusts his instincts, which are usually reliable.
Once earned, his loyalty is fierce and unflagging,
as is his love. He’s a man fighting daily against
the inclination to let his sarcastic, bitter disillusionment
turn into cynicism, despair, and the protective
shield of uncaring. So he’s one raw open wound,
raging against the system that grinds him down,
refusing to succumb to being chewed up and spat
out. He’s determined to stay indigestible.
I don’t
know if Andy Sipowicz is Everyman, or every American,
but if he is then my estimation of us as a country
goes up a couple of notches. I keep my eye on Andy
Sipowicz, because I have faith in him. I think he’s
the hope of this country. For all the obvious ugliness
of the man, over the past six or seven years we’ve
watched him surmount his deep-rooted racism and
homophobia, assorted varieties of machismo, an attempted
assassination, chronic alcoholism, weight problems,
prostate trouble and sexual dysfunction, the threat
of cancer -- no to mention public and private disappointments,
betrayals, and losses too numerous to count, including
the senseless murder of his grown son from his first
marriage and the sudden death of his partner Bobby.
Franz’s wrenching portrayal of the contradictions
ripping Andy apart as, covered with a junkie’s
puke, he almost went mad in the station-house bathroom
over his helplessness at the senseless ebbing away
of Bobby’s life was devastating in its intensity.
Yet, through
all of that, he’s remained a model of commitment
and an ongoing example of the painfulness -- and
the possibility -- of continuing growth and change
in each of us. And he’s still clocking in for
his shift, on time, every day. Not because he loves
his job; I don’t think he does now, if he ever
did, but it’s hard to imagine any other line
of work for which he’s fit. He’s there
because it’s his duty, and Andy understands
something deep and ancient about duty and honor
from the foot soldier’s point of view. And
he’s there because he truly has no place else
to go.
In this season’s
next-to last episode, Sylvia was accidentally shot
in a courthouse corridor by a vengeful father run
amok. Andy, present and on the job, missed his chance
to protect her by a fluke, brought down the deranged
shooter, then -- somewhere between the end of that
episode and the beginning of the next -- got to
watch his wife die before his eyes. About the only
thing that hasn’t been stripped from him now
is his son by Sylvia, still an infant, whom he’s
been left to raise alone. At the end of the season
finale, he was down on his knees at his baby’s
bedside, hands clasped in rusty, unpracticed prayer.
Have a good
thought for Andy Sipowicz. Something about the future
of America is riding on his shoulders.
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©
Copyright 1999 by A. D. Coleman. All rights reserved.
By permission of the author and Image/World
Syndication Services,
P.O.B. 040078, Staten Island, New York 10304-0002
USA.
