When I first saw his standup on an HBO special in the late '70s, I was astounded by the rapidity of his speech and his movement, by the level of his free associations and mimicry, and by his ability to keep it all wired to a free-flowing but lucid performance. He was able to channel all this energy and multiple streams of influence into one comedic whole and deliver it up. You had to be smart enough to keep pace with him and get all of his references. Even when you didn't, you were able to glean enough of his comic essence to appreciate his artistry. He seemed to be always "on."
Robin parlayed that artistry to stardom in his role as Mork from Ork in Mork & Mindy, the TV sitcom that spun off of the phenomenally popular Happy Days. An alien proved the perfect role for him, as he seemed otherworldly. His style was closely associated with the quicksilver, oddball performances of his idol, Jonathan Winters, but with a more contemporary bent.
Robin Williams gave me plenty of laughs, but I have to say that I preferred his more dramatic roles. I'm rather sensitive myself, so something about his comedy suggested to me that he was thisfreakinclose to becoming completely unhinged. "Manic" might be one way to describe his art. While this was a draw -- he always seemed to be able to pull back from the edge -- it made me nervous. Was there desperation behind it? Pain? Insecurity? A mental imbalance? I wondered.
Robin soothed my concerns when he played more constrained roles in film. I remember him in the late Paul Mazursky's Moscow On The Hudson, which was a dramedy about a Russian circus musician who defects to America in the middle of a good will tour. The film is a valentine to the American way of life, while also a meditation on the sadness and isolation of immigrants who make a tough choice and then must assimilate to a bewildering new culture. Robin's performance made you feel Vladimir's longings, fears, regrets, joys, and frustrations in such a fresh and heartfelt way that it was a revelation. He gave compelling performances in films that ran the gamut from low comedy to high drama, to thrillers and fantasies. He could channel his energy into creating a complete film portrayal.
Many of his comic films were targeted to kids and families: Aladdin, Mrs. Doubtfire, Hook, Jumanji, Night At The Museum. Kids seemed to connected to his joyous and freeform antics. These kinds of films weren't really my thing; I didn't realize until now just how influential Mrs. Doubtfire has been for a whole generation of divorced families! (I'm like: Meh, a meddling man in a dress confusing his kids and interfering with his ex-wife. And--angel chorus--Pierce Brosnan.) He never gave anything less than his all in every performance.
It's been said that comic personalities need laughs. They live for them and live by them -- it's how they get paid. The laughter of strangers becomes like the air they need to survive. Without it many comics falter and flail. Some literally die without a constant diet of approbation.
Robin reportedly suffered bouts of depression. He battled addictions. He may well have felt pressure to keep to the high bar of comic genius that he set for himself early in his career. He may not have been getting the steady diet of laughs (or therapies or prescription drugs or nurturing) he needed to keep himself level. He may have been heartbroken about the state of his past, present or future. He may have just looked down the road and seen a seemingly endless cycle of balance, relapse, rehab, balance, relapse, rehab, and lost the will or any compelling reason to continually submit himself or his family to the painful cycle. NPR just reported that he was in the early stages of Parkinson's disease. Maybe he saw what is in store after a Parkinson's diagnosis and didn't want to go through it publicly. I don't pretend to know. He opted out.
I'm not sad for Robin Williams -- he's at peace, and he left a comic legacy of considerable proportions. I'm sad for us. Because we've lost his talent and his humanity. By all accounts, he was a warm and caring person, something that came across in many of his film performances, in his devotion to Comic Relief (which raised money for the homeless), and his appearances before our troops.
I'm sad because every time someone takes his own life we have the same old debate about mental illness and addiction, looking for something outside of ourselves to blame it on. We don't seem to understand that we are all (Robin too) part of the same fabric of social and cultural standards, the same outlandish expectations, the same senseless acts of violence, the same media ignorance passing as wisdom that negatively impacts all of us in this country. No wonder so many of us regardless of celebrity, class, gender or race are spinning in confusion, despair, and hopelessness in a vacuum that no one dares to identify or claim. I'm saddened by all the denial, by the tacit agreement that those who take their lives are selfish or weak or cowardly, by the hand-wringing we do about those who fall through the cracks even when we blame those who have fallen for creating the cracks in the first place.
We behave as if we know something about life that Robin didn't, and we think that if he really knew it, he would not have asphyxiated himself on Monday morning in Marin County. I'm sad because we will never know what Robin thought he knew when he made that fateful decision.
Yes -- reality is a helluva concept that few of us can completely get our arms around. Thanks, Robin, for making us laugh while you tried.
[Photo 2: fanpop.com]
No comments:
Post a Comment