My social media feeds have been swamped by remembrances of, and shared grief for the death of Robin Williams. His heart-breaking suicide was of sufficient significance that the President of the United States issued a statement on it, implicitly suggesting that the exterior, projected life of a celebrity is perhaps more real and relevant to the populace than what’s taking place in Israel or Ukraine. It’s kind of strange to think of it this way, but there seems some truth to it.
One of the repeating themes I’ve encountered is that people cannot believe that somebody who made them laugh so much could possibly have such a sad and broken interior. There’s an obvious lack of empathy in such a position, in that these people cannot see a life beyond the surface one that they so greedily absorbed. To be a celebrity in our culture is to give up one’s interior, becoming a vessel in which the schizophrenic projections of the public push everything else out. It must get awfully stormy in there, and in the end celebrities exist as sacrifices to our need, the actual person (or self) tossed beautiful and adored into the raging, all-consuming volcano of our culture.
Williams himself said that in America they really do mythologize people when they’re dead, and prophetically, he’s now being mythologized. His death means whatever we need it to mean. For some people, it’s a clarion call to awaken the public to the insidious dangers of depression, to others it’s about the dark weight that many comedians carry with them on stage. Everybody seems to have something very real and personal that they feel in his death, but usually end up cannibalizing Williams in an attempt to find some sort of meaning, and perhaps even redemption, in this small, solitary and very sad act.
However, the one thing that seems universal is that everybody is declaring Robin Williams a genius. Although I am of the right age to have experienced the full sweep of his career, I was never much of a fan. I mean, I don’t have a favourite Robin William moment, and like a lot of people I saw a riot of pathology in his performance rather than genius. His need was so great and his onslaught so relentless, that I found it completely exhausting to watch him. He drained me, and I just wanted to hug him into stillness, letting him know that everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t.
His comedy was based on recognition rather than content. Middle-of-the-road and Baby Boomer friendly, he was an unfiltered convulsion of mimicry and pop culture references. He was elliptical, swinging from one character to the next before you could think about what he was actually saying, apparently being content in simply getting a reflex response from the audience instead of a contemplated one. You laughed because you recognized his characters, not so much because of what they were saying. It was nostalgic, even old-fashioned, and in a weird way I think Williams would have made for a fantastic silent movie star, so exaggerated was his stage personality. Creating the manic illusion of edge, Williams was safe and not very challenging. He had kind and vulnerable eyes, and always seemed to want to please us, for us to feel good about ourselves, and I think we loved him for that rather than his talent.
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10 responses to “Robin Williams”
I have to agree with your characterization of Robin Williams, MM. Like you, I found his comedy to be an exhausting manic onslaught. That being said, my personal “favourite moments” of Robin Williams were the darker, quieter, more subtle shades glimpsed via some of his serious acting roles; in particular, I was captivated by his heart-wrenching performance in “What Dreams May Come”. As a second choice, I preferred the old, old days of Robin Williams – the “Mork from Ork” days – when he was a newcomer, and just scratching the surface of his well of manic comedic behaviours.
The icon that was zany, crazy, silly, manic Robin Williams will be remembered and missed by the all-consuming public. I’m just sad that so few of “us” ever got to know the quiet, gentle, kind father/husband/friend that he was to a privileged few, because surely the neon glow of his public personality dimmed our eyes to the real man within, hence our shock at his unexpected passing.
Tracy:
That’s beautifully put.
Like you, I liked his quiet, even disturbed roles the best, and think that he had a great capacity as an actor. I have never seen “What Dreams May Come,” and will make a point of it now. Thank you.
Not that I necessarily agree with you, but of course we all see art in different ways, and get different shades out of it; otherwise there would be only a little art out there.
Bigger than the story of his death, and the loss of art, for me, is the monstrous outpouring I’m seeing in social media. It is so much bigger than anything I’ve seen before, after such an event.
And so much mourning. It feels, sometimes, like folks mourning for their loss, not his, or his family’s. It disturbs me, a bit.
I really liked Moscow on the Hudson; not that it was his best, but it was my first glimpse into another side of his art.
Sadly, I am not very affected by his death. And I think that’s fine.
I found him exhausting to watch as well; while I recognized his talent and a real brilliance in the mania, I definitely took it in with more of a feeling of horror than one of laughter. Clearly a lot of my friends found something very special in his work, and I’m happy that he was able to reach into them thus, and I respect their feelings.
To me the surprise isn’t that someone so “funny” would take their own life, but someone so successful in their chosen field. Maybe that’s a shallowness on my part, but I’ve never known a depression to be so bad in someone who was very much making it at what they wanted to make it at in life. Bi-polar, Borderline, perhaps. The violence of the act – the specifics of how he did it – bely a personal torture, and also a strong disregard for those who would find him.
Not trying to start a flame war, but…”a strong disregard for those who would find him.”
You’re probably missing due regard for a substantial element of the illness there.
true enough. death by hanging is a gruesome sight.
It’s odd, but I never cared for him in his coedic roles, too intense. Never saw Good Morning Vietnam. You are so right that we made him what we wanted him to be. People are shallow and in the moment and move on. Empathy is rare. Personal demons don’t care how much money one has or how close a family is. Sometimes they win, as many know from personal experience. The FOX News reporter proves the cluelessness of the majority.
I really liked him but more in his serious roles I suppose. My favourite was in Good Will Hunting. This clip:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8mn3nLPSMY
Apparently the fart bit was improvised and you can see the camera start to shake as the cameran laughed with Matt.
I also find it interesting that he dealt with suicide in at least two of his serious movies: Dead Poet’s Society and What Dreams May Come.
His mania was exhausting and, before long, exhausted. He took all of the love and good will we could give and kept asking for more. When the well of good will ran dry, he failed to understand that we, the ordinary folks, had simply grown tired and had graduated to more complex, contemplative humor. Robin Williams masked his faults, flaws and insecurity while others, such as Louis C.K. reveled in their weakness and honed it into a razor sharp edge. I will never not love Robin Williams’ work and in one hundred years time, many will still marvel at his gifts and be thankful that he lived such a wonderful life while never once thinking of his sad, very lonely death.
With all due respect you summation of his performances seems to be entirely based on his talk show appearances.
You completely ignore his scripted stand up routines and his television and film acting where very different character traits and a definite need for self control are required and apparent.
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