Nance Movsesian, a proud Armenian American, had another passion. She was the grand dame of the Boston theater scene.
She ran a small public relations firm called Ideas Associates that catered to giants in the industry, taking her bow before every show—musical, comedy, drama, or otherwise.
The success of every production that came her way remained steadfast in her heart, mind, and hands. The sight of her in a theater lobby, distributing press kits to newspaper critics left an indelible mark. I was one of her contacts, having spent a good part of my newspaper career reviewing shows.
Nance was on top of her game. Not only would critics call her for tickets but they would receive choice seating. And they would be first in line at the buffet line during a post-theater reception in meeting the stars.
Many of them would take advantage of the perks. They would come, enjoy the show and hospitality, and never write the review for which they were assigned. For Nance, she came to accept such insolence and never made an issue of it. My reviews were always prompt and seldom critical. If a show was bad, really bad, I would applaud the lighting, set, costumes, music.
I remember attending the opening night of “Phantom of the Opera.” As usual, Nance met me in the lobby, handed me my press kit, and told me to enjoy the show. As you would expect, tickets were sold out weeks in advance for the latest Andrew Lloyd Weber musical.
We took our seats in fifth row center and the show was every bit the blockbuster it was intended prior to its Broadway opening. I was mesmerized.
“Don’t leave so fast,” Nance had said. “The reception comes next. And I have a surprise for you.”
The surprise had me trembling with emotion. She sat us next to—get this—Sarah Brightman and Michael Crawford. Imagine face-to-face interviews with two of the greatest protagonists in thespian circles. The color story that followed outdid anything by the Globe or any other journal of its kind. My editor was taken by surprise.
Little did he know it was one Armenian assisting another and the appreciation she had shown me for the reviews. Nance never wasted an opportunity to discuss her heritage and culture. She was connected with the Sister City of Yerevan where children arrived in Cambridge for enrichment purposes.
Though she never visited Armenia, she lived the dream.
She handled shows large and small for theaters large and small. In a business as big and bold as Broadway, Nance Movsesian was an oak in a redwood forest. She had always said there was plenty of room at the top, but no place to sit down.
The only time she sat was on the commuter train from Bradford and always walked the remaining distance to her Tremont Street office, rain or shine. She said it gave her time to collect her thoughts and plan a busy day accordingly.
For 35 years, she weathered the storm right to the end when cancer took her life Oct. 26. She chose to die gracefully in the comfort of her home without any use of chemotherapy or other drugs. And she would have no part of a nursing home atmosphere, even for therapeutic purposes.
Three days before, while attending my mother’s funeral, she had called to tell me how sorry she was that she couldn’t attend. She asked for a prayer. I wished her well.
Some years ago, she was in New York City scouting shows and drumming up her PR business when the power had gone out. Manhattan was blacked out as theater patrons rushed to the street in chaos.
Nance happened to be outside one of the theaters in the midst of a crowd. No trains were operating. Hotels were in distress. Stores were dark. Pedestrians were roaming around in circles.
That’s when Nance turned into a songstress and gathered the crowd about her. “C’mon,” she told the displaced audience. “Let’s sing.”
And with that, she led some 800 patrons in a medley of Broadway show tunes one hit after another right there on fabled 42nd Street made famous by the Cohans and Barrymores of their time.
The more they sang, the more they mollified the dilemma that faced them. No doubt, Nance had the stage all to herself this one night. And her name never appeared on a Playbill.
Take a bow Nance. You earned it!
Tom Vartabedian
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