On ‘Downton Abbey,’ Maggie Smith Made an Icy Aristocrat Irresistible

In retrospect, Maggie Smith’s brilliant, high-wire career can be seen as a protest against celebrity.

As an actor, Smith, who died on Friday at 89, favored characters into which she could disappear, and the rare interviews she agreed to were awkward, unrevealing, sometimes deliberately uningratiating. In a 2013 “60 Minutes” profile, she seems almost physically racked by the journalist’s curiosity. There was one personal detail, though, that she had no problem sharing in her final years: how much she despised the fame that her most recognized part had brought down on her.

“It’s ridiculous,” she told one reporter. “I was able to live a somewhat normal life until I started doing ‘Downton Abbey.’ I know that sounds funny, but I am serious. Before that I could go to all the places I wanted and see all of the things that I like, but now I can’t, which I find incredibly awful.”

“Flattering,” she added, “but awful.”

Did she protest too much? Or was it the peculiar nature of the attention that afflicted her? As someone who began following her from my first viewing of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” (1969), her Oscar-winning drama, I can say I would have recognized Maggie Smith on any street anywhere. (Among other mass-cultural acts, she guest-starred on “The Carol Burnett Show.”) But would I have hailed her? What was it about “Downton Abbey” that inspired perfect strangers to lay claim to her?

We can start with the show itself. From the beginning, “Downton Abbey” was conceived as a Tory fantasy — a make-believe past in which aristocrats take a searching interest in their servants’ personal lives and subsidize their eye surgery — but it came to us through the democratic medium of broadcast television. To watch it in the United States, you had only to fire up your local PBS station, where it played every Sunday night at the same time, leaving you instantly positioned to spill tea the second it was over. (As The New York Times’s “Downton” recapper, I can attest to this.)

Few TV shows achieve that kind of instant saturation, so we might all be excused for thinking that these characters were ours. But how exactly did we warm to Violet Crawley, the wary and imperious dowager who despises any intrusion of democracy (America, Ireland) or modernity (telephones, swivel chairs) and who sincerely wants to know what a weekend is?