surrounded by people that make me feel like I am alone.' ~ Robin Williams
In 1979, fresh out of high school, I discovered 'Reality: What a Concept!' ...Robin
Williams had a deep voice... I believe it was his debut comedy LP.
In those days there weren't a lot of avenues for learning about somebody you'd see
once a week on TV, so I just assumed the squeaky helium voice of Mork was Williams's
natural voice. Nope: it was just part of the antic disposition he donned for the flimsy
one-note role that made him, within a few months in 1978, one of the biggest stars
in America.
In real life — to the extent a stand-up comic's stage persona is any closer to real
life — Williams sounded like what he was: a superbly educated young man who
spoke with a velvety and erudite baritone, the product of a life of ease and opportunity.
He grew up in suburban Detroit, the son of a vice-president of an automobile company.
He moved to Marin County, California (home of the über rich) and eventually studied
theater at Juilliard in New York, a protégé of John Houseman…where his classmate
and later roommate was Christopher Reeve. They went on to be lifelong friends.
'Happy Days' (1974–1984), created as a de facto serialization of 'American Graffiti'
(1973), had already entered its interminable creative decline when he auditioned for
a part as a space alien who descends into Richie Cunningham's Milwaukee. Invited
by the producer to take a seat, he sat on his head. The rest would have been a late
1970s' flash in the pan (who remembers Leather Tuscadero?) if Williams had had
nothing to offer beyond manic improv comedy energy. But it turns out that Juilliard
and Houseman had an eye for talent. First, Williams had a lot of manic energy,
goosed in those days with beach-toy shovels full of cocaine. His ability to fill
a room with his spirit, to riff until his feet practically lifted off the floor,
carried him out of 'Happy Days', through four seasons of 'Mork & Mindy' (1978–1982),
and on to a lifetime on talk shows he could carry through dead spots with one of his
preferred celebrity imitations (John Wayne, Truman Capote) or a reference to drug
culture. He use to say, "Canada is like a really nice apartment over a meth lab."
The hints of richer talent were sporadic for a while. His title role in Robert
Altman's 'Popeye' (1980) was just confusing, as was the whole movie, an attempt at
an art-house blockbuster. His performance in 'The World According to Garp' (1982),
understated with flashes of anger, is the one I'd recommend as the first evidence
of serious dramatic skill. 'Good Morning Vietnam' (1987) had its moments, but it
wasn't until Peter Weir's 'Dead Poets Society' (1989) that you could hear the
satisfying crack of a serious actor knocking a performance out of the ballpark. The
notes he established here — wistful but warm and confiding — set the parameters
for most of his dramatic work to follow. But here he shines above some of the best
actors of a younger generation. When he leans in close after Ethan Hawke's painfully
shy young student manages to improvise some serviceable beat poetry and whispers,
"Don't you forget this," it's a perfect moment.
Most of the American performing arts are so rooted in the colloquial — jazz,
stand-up comedy, cinema and team sports — that it's easy for audiences to fool
themselves into believing the greats are nothing but intuitive talents who get by
on luck and help from the Almighty. But Williams honed his comedy through hundreds
of nights in clubs, and he brought the same discipline to his movie roles that he
used to get into Juilliard. While my favourite film roles for him are like most
everyone else's — 'Dead Poets Society',
'Awakenings' (1990), 'Good Will Hunting' (1997) — his craftsman's discipline is
perhaps most clearly on display in Christopher Nolan's 'Insomnia' (2002), where
he plays a disturbed Alaska resident caught up in a murder mystery investigated
by Al Pacino. Here Williams avoided mannerism and sentimentality to deliver
a cold, bitterly compelling performance.
It took only a few minutes for Williams' apparent suicide to bring out legions
of commentators who are sure they knew why he could not carry on. I won't throw
more guesswork onto that pile. He made no secret that life could be as hard for
him as for millions of others who do their best, every day, with demons at their
heels. What I prefer to remember is that when he became famous he seemed
certain to be a flash in the pan, but 36 years later he leaves a deep and generous
legacy.
In 'Dead Poets Society', John Keating (Robin Williams) tells the boys: "To quote
from Whitman: 'O me, O life! Of the questions of these recurring... Of the endless
trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish… What good amid these,
O me, O life? Answer: that you are here….That life exists, and identity. That the
powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.' That the powerful play
goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
That was his...
© From Where I Sit™
www.fromwhereisit.co
July 20th, 2015
* photo: Final appearance @ 'The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson' - May '1992
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