Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
I was never a fan of Robin Williams when he was doing Mork and Mindy. It seems like such a long time ago, and I’m sure I was older then. I think I was raising children or something like that. If I’d known then that it was Robin Williams, I’d have paid more attention.
I was driving to work this morning, I’d just got off the hovercraft and I switched on the radio, and there was the announcement, that Robin Williams was dead. I couldn’t believe it. I spent the whole journey listening to extracts from film roles and interviews and chat show appearances, laughing out loud every time, and then becoming instantly solemn when I remembered why they were playing them on Radio 4.
He brought so much life and depth to everything he did
I was like so many others, whose lives were burst in on by Robin Williams. He was suddenly there, as natural and familiar as someone you had always known, and you felt that you did know him, whatever part he was playing, because he was such a force and he brought so much life and depth to everything he did.
All the tributes that flooded in seemed unnaturally stilted, as if everyone was genuinely shocked, in that can’t-quite-believe-it-really-happened way that characterises unexpected and profound bad news. There was a lack of soundbite slickness about their reactions. I don’t think anyone expected it either.
He was perfectly happy to take risks
Robin Williams seemed to do the same thing as a lot of other fantastically talented comedy actors. In mid-career he started to do straight roles. In his case, he proved himself to be an outstanding actor, and was Oscar-nominated as well as winning a Golden Globe. He provided us with some unforgettable roles, like the charismatic teacher in Dead Poets Society, the psychiatrist in Good Will Hunting, or the DJ in Good Morning Vietnam.
Robin Williams was also perfectly happy to take risks, which sometimes failed terribly, but often became triumphs, like Mrs Doubtfire, and his central role in the Fisher King. He used his quickfire off-the-top-of-his-head ad-libbing so successfully as the genie in Aladdin that the animators reworked the animation to fit, rather than the other way round.
Seamlessly able to adlib
I used to think there were three kinds of comedians, based on their willingness to depart from script, or not. I used to think that Robin Williams was entirely natural and apparently seamlessly able to adlib with enormous comical energy about anything for any period of time. But they interviewed Alexi Sayle, who became his friend when he turned up at the Comedy Store in London unexpectedly.
They used to talk comedy, and Alexi Sayle said that people thought Robin Williams did nothing but adlib, stream-of-consciousness style, but after studying him for a while, he had decided that there was an enormous amount of worked-out comedic material stored inside Robin Williams’s head, which seemed to be able to spool out at will in different combinations.
Spotlighting stupidity and prejudice
I loved his style, and I don’t care how he did it, he was always wonderfully funny and creative, and as far as I know he was able to be funny without ever picking on anyone else, apart from spotlighting stupidity and prejudice, in himself as much as others.
Above all, what I loved was his openness. He was able to talk about his various afflictions and weaknesses in an extraordinary way. He described in excruciating detail what it was like to be him, especially when he was suffering and losing ground, in a way that was utterly true and honest, as well as being fantastically funny.
Describing his inner landscape without self-pity
Some people who don’t understand, or don’t want to, have accused him of being selfish or cowardly. They know nothing. Everything he said was describing his inner landscape without self-pity. I can’t think of anyone who knew themselves better, the thinness of their skin, or the sheer horror of suffering from the depressions to which he was prone.
Listen to him talking about his experiences. This is someone fighting a war. He knows the enemy so well, he faces it every moment of every day, he is utterly aware of the gradations of success and failure, of the snakes and ladders present at every moment of his life, the terrible difficulty of staying on top, the urge and release of the slide down. And yet he delineates it all with exquisite clarity, and he makes it bearable for us by describing and illustrating it with glorious humour.
It must have hurt terribly
I can remember some of his film roles, in which he has to deal with suffering, sometimes physical and sometimes internal, and I’m not surprised he does it so well, because it’s probably so familiar that it must have hurt terribly to portray it.
Robin Williams was a giant. Of comedy, of acting, as a human being and an inspiration, But mostly he was able to inspire us by turning inner pain and suffering back on itself in a way that made it easier for all of us to get through our own particular demon-filled days.
You have illuminated the darkness for all of us
Robin, I’m so sad that you lost your own particular fight to survive. Bless you and thank you, and may you rest in peace, at last. I hope you’re still being funny wherever you are. I can’t imagine a flame as strong as yours being snuffed out. Know that you have illuminated the darkness for all of us for a while.
Revisit his films, or watch them if you’ve missed them. As Joni Mitchell wrote in Big Yellow Taxi:
Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone.
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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