I was never a fan of pleasantries because they seemed like a waste of time. Something that two people said to each other before they could say real things to each other. As years go by, more and more of our verbal interaction has taken the form of extended pleasantries. Little, it feels, that people say to each other is real. It’s about how they wish to look, how they can best position themselves, agenda.

That’s one reason I always loved the character of Norm Peterson on the sitcom “Cheers,” played by George Wendt, who has now cashed out his tab at the age of 76 and left this earthly barroom for one where I hope the kegs never run dry.

Norm was universal from the first time he entered the hostelry — as perpetual student and not-very-effective waitress Diane Chambers would have put it.

There was no more artful ingress in the history of American television than any of the many made by Norm, and they were so good, and had so much room for variability, that we got to witness one in every episode of the show.

You know the gag: Norm comes through the door, ready for a cold beer, someone asks him how he’s doing, and he answers.

But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I’m hesitant to even call the gag a gag, because it’s replete with a quality increasingly rare in our world: authenticity.

Norm doesn’t treat the inquiry — “How’s the world treating you, Norm?” — as perfunctory pleasantry. Which is what we almost always do.

In one episode, his response is, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.” A query of “What’s shaking?” prompts a reply of “All four cheeks and a couple of chins.”

But in real life, when someone asks us how we are, we say, “Good, and you?” The truth is, we’ve just answered automatically, without a single thought, and we’re unlikely to be listening to whatever answer the other person gives us.

But what an amazing idea it is to ask someone how they are and care about the answer. To be invested in their well-being from the start. To jettison pretense and formality. And how subversive it is to treat another’s tossed-off query as though they cared. Maybe that shifts us all toward paying attention.

Norm always answered truthfully. He gave his interlocutor — and the patrons of the bar who enjoyed his quips — a tart response peppered with wit. But he was also willing to go there. And where’s that? To a place of being humble. Of admitting to struggle.

Now, Norm’s life might not have seemed arduous. He owned a house, had a wife who stood by him although he spent his evenings with the gang at Cheers — often dodging her phone calls. He didn’t work that much when he worked at all.

In a world that’s now rammed with loneliness, it’s easy to watch Norm and think, “I wish I had what that barfly had.” Norm has people. He’s both liked and loved.

Times change. I don’t think you could have a Cheers-type setup in our current iteration of life, but maybe you never could have one without sitcom magic. Shows idealize. But there’s truth and wisdom in both “Cheers” and Norm, without whom Cheers wouldn’t have been Cheers. And we can still wish. We must.

In “Crime and Punishment,” Dostoevsky wrote that everyone needs a somewhere. A somewhere can be a someone. It’s what helps us to be ourselves. Naked and open. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Norm never felt a need to embellish. He owned his struggles — what may have been his depression. His failings. He dished out the bons mots with each entrance like he was a thirsty Pascal who paid for his drinks in pensées, which made him an inspiration.

The gag never became less efficacious. It was the sitcom analogue to Conan Doyle’s “the trick,” the term for when Sherlock Holmes would dazzle Dr. Watson by telling him everything about someone just by looking at their walking stick.

I remember watching Norm when I was 8 and even then thinking he was cool. This wasn’t a star athlete. He could have lived across the street. He blew me away — as he made me laugh — simply by being brave enough to tell the truth about where he was at.

With Norm, the quotidian was never just the quotidian. It’s like in baseball: Everyone says in May that it’s early in the season, it doesn’t matter, but all the games still count as much as any of the other games.

That’s how Norm lived, and we have George Wendt to thank for Norm’s example, because you can’t imagine anyone else in the part. As to the question of how the world was treating Norm, I think the answer lies somewhere in how Norm understood what was important in the world. That’s worth a round on the house.

Colin Fleming is the author, most recently, of “Sam Cooke: Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963.”

4/5 stars

In It Was Just An Accident, women in Iran can choose to appear and work in public without headscarves, and wear Western-style bridal dresses in the open. Modern bookshops do brisk business, and – perhaps most strikingly – paroled dissidents can rebuild their lives without hassle from the authorities.

In contrast to his previous films, the twice imprisoned Jafar Panahi – who is now allowed to work and travel freely after having his convictions overturned by Iranian courts – seems to have set It Was Just An Accident somewhere in an imagined, brighter future, when authoritarianism and religious dogma have receded into the distance.

As suppressed anguish takes over, however, the film turns into one dark nightmare. Could past traumas be so easily forgotten – and how should those who suffered confront or make peace with their tormentors in a land of relative freedom?

Filmed in Iran without official approval, It Was Just an Accident offers masterfully scripted, highly contemplative drama about the after-effects of political tyranny on the individual.

In between, Panahi has also laced his movie with dollops of jet-black, Beckett-like comedy, with the characters name-checking Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot in one scene.

George Wendt, who will be famous as long as television is remembered as Norm from “Cheers,” died Tuesday. He passed in Los Angeles, where he lived, though the cities to which he is spiritually tied are Boston, where the show was set, and Chicago, where he was born and entered show business by way of Second City, and which he unofficially represented throughout his life, and which claimed him as one of its own. One of his last Facebook posts, earlier this month, as a Chicagoan educated by Jesuits, was, “pope leo XIV is a sout’ sider my friendts. his cassock size is 4XIV.”

Entering stage right, as the assembled cast shouted his name, Norm would launch his heavyset frame across the set to a corner stool where a glass of beer — draft, never bottled — would appear as he arrived. He was the quintessence of Regular Guy, a big friendly dog of a person, with some of the sadness that big, friendly dogs can carry.

“Cheers,” which ran for 11 seasons from 1982 to 1993 — Wendt appeared in every one of its 275 episodes — was a show about going where everybody knows your name but also, as in life and fiction, a place for people who had nowhere better to be, or nowhere else to go. Though Norm was nominally an accountant, and then a house painter, his real job was to sit and fence with John Ratzenberger‘s font-of-bad-information postman Cliff Clavin — they were one of the medium’s great double acts — and drink beer, and then another. His unpaid tab filled a binder. (“I never met a beer I didn’t drink,” quoth Norm, though there was never any suggestion of alcoholism, or even of drunkenness.)

But as a person with work troubles and a marriage that could get the better of him — Wendt’s own wife, Bernadette Birkett, supplied the voice for the off-screen Vera — he was also the vehicle for some of the show’s more dramatic, thoughtful passages. (That his service to the series was essential was borne out by six Emmy nominations.) Unlike some other “Cheers” regulars, there was no caricature in his character. His woes, and his pleasures, were everyday, and he played Norm straight, seriously, without affectation, so that one felt that the Wendt one might meet on the street would not be substantially different from the person onscreen.

Like many actors so completely identified with a part, Wendt, who spent six years with Second City, worked more than one might have imagined; there were dozens of appearances on the small and big screen across the years, including his own short-lived “The George Wendt Show,” which took off on public radio’s “Car Talk.”

After “Cheers,” he’s perhaps most associated with the recurring, Chicago-set “Saturday Night Live” sketch “Bill Swerski’s Superfans.” But he also did theater, including turns on Broadway as Edna Turnblad in “Hairspray,” as Yvan in Yasmina Reza’s “Art” and as Santa in the musical adaptation of “Elf.” There was “Twelve Angry Men,” with Richard Thomas in Washington, D.C., and he was Willy Loman in “Death of a Salesman” in Waterloo, Canada. In Bruce Graham’s “Funnyman,” at Chicago’s Northlight Theatre in 2015, he played a comic cast in a serious play, breaking out of typecasting.

We were connected on Facebook, where he regularly liked posts having to do with music and musicians; he was a fan, and sometimes a friend, of alternative and underground groups, and tributes to him from that quarter are quickly appearing. (When asked, he would often cite L.A.’s X, the Blasters and Los Lobos as among his favorites.) One of his own last posts was in memoriam of David Thomas, leader of the avant-garde Pere Ubu, twinned with “kindred spirit” Chicago Bears defensive tackle Steve McMichael, who died the same day.

Once, after he messaged me to compliment an appreciation — like this — I’d written about Tommy Smothers, I took the opportunity to ask, “Do I correctly remember seeing you at Raji’s a million years ago, probably for the Continental Drifters?” Raji’s, legendary within a small circle, was a dive club in a building long since gone on Hollywood Boulevard east of Vine Street; it wasn’t the Roxy, say, or other celebrity-friendly spots around town — or for that matter, anything like “Cheers,” except in that it served as a clubhouse for the regulars.

“Yep,” he replied. “Tough to get out like I used to, but please say hi if you see me around.” Sadly, I never did, and never will.