Every once in a while the world suddenly loses someone whose cultural reach is so vast, whose inspirational touch so expansive, that the collective light we all took for granted to show us the way seems dimmed. The route no longer so obvious, the way we perceive ourselves and each other somehow less clear. We may not have realised quite how much of an effect their life had had on ours, but when their presence is extinguished quickly and brutally, that effect is thrown into sharp and heartbreaking focus.
Robin Williams was blessed with the kind of magnified charisma most actors would sell their grandmothers for. A lightning-quick wit, an unmatched ability to mine the most tender of sensitivities right at the core of the human soul, an aura that radiated gentle warmth and approachability, and a face that could contort like silly putty being fed through a pasta maker. To say he was funny is to do him a disservice - he made you laugh to the point of disbelief, the burning in your sides only tempered by the awe at the sheer speed of the comic electricity being whipped up in his uniquely and wonderfully twisted brain laboratory.
As a young man, the film Dead Poets Society changed my life. I was a gawky, awkward schoolboy, who was desperate to act; who loved everything about books - from their musty smell to the cavalcade of new ideas they housed and the satisfying crack of their spines; and who harboured a love of poetry that could only lead to a massive increase in underwear bills as a result of brutally administered wedgies. I was at an all-boys school where I was told categorically by staff (save a few) that the creative arts were predominantly a girls’ pursuit. As a boy, that kind of throwaway indoctrination is exquisitely powerful. Surrounded by the easy bigotry of a male-dominated staff and the careless cruelty of teenagers, I keenly remember ignorantly questioning what my deeply-felt passion for the unclassifiable meant. Was my love for that which couldn’t be captured in graphs and charts - for the juxtaposition of language and situation, for that which spoke to me via metaphor, or music, or the magical collision of two words with no business being bedfellows - somehow a sleight upon my burgeoning manhood, as my peers and teachers insisted? Was my sexuality more uncertain than I had previously thought? Was I less manly? Did I have a future? Should I change? Was I normal?
Then, in the mid nineties I came across a film that had been released in 1989, and which presented a rousing and beautiful argument for my heart just when I needed it the most. Robin Williams’ John Keating was the very embodiment of acceptance. A flawed inspiration to the boys around him - all in a similarly fluid state of self-doubt and flux. A man who not only embraced the fragile mirror to human nature that art is capable of holding up, but who also understood that it is society’s very life force. The gasoline that keeps all our cars running healthily. According to Keating, there was no engine stall that some well-picked Auden couldn’t at least help to jump-start for a couple more miles.
Perhaps more crucially than that, these wonderful teachings were coming from the voice of my childhood. This sage advice from the mouth of Mrs Doubtfire’s Euphegenia Doubtfire, in the accent of Aladdin’s Genie, and with the face of Hook’s Peter Banning. All films which I loved unconditionally - even the latter, a film which Spielberg himself seems to have disowned in the subsequent years, is firmly mind-wrapped for me in the candy floss of nostalgia, and if anyone disagrees, I’ll curl into a ball and roll down a plank at them.
Every frame of Dead Poets Society inspired me. Not to get the ‘Carpe Diem’ tattoo that a 15 year old me very nearly horrified his mother with, but to keep pressing on with what my heart was telling me, rather than letting myself drown in the tears whose current threatened to carry me elsewhere. One thing is certain, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be where I am now without that film and its remarkable central performance.
I’m aware, of course, of the argument that Robin Williams was merely delivering lines, merely playing a role, but I’d claim that very few actors would have been anywhere near as effective. Indeed, one of the defining traits of his work over the years was to play inspirational characters. That is one hell of a thing to find yourself typecast as, and something that speaks incredibly highly of how you are perceived by both the industry and its audience. Over their careers actors invariably get typecast as baddies, as lotharios, as geeky, as dumb. It’s the nature of the job - but to find yourself as the go-to guy for inspirational purveyors of wisdom and truth? That is something very special indeed - be it in Dead Poets Society, Awakenings, Good Will Hunting, or even Patch Adams. Robin Williams was that man, and of course he was. I was too young for Mork and Mindy, but I had caught enough in re-runs to know that his presence onscreen from the word go was extraordinary. I had seen enough stand up to know that other comedians must have had to juggle that unseemly cocktail of admiration and jealousy from the sidelines when he was in full flow, and I had seen enough of his chat-show appearances to know that he was an affable, generous and fascinating person in his day-to-day life. Of course he was the right choice to play men who made us want to be better. He made everyone around him strive to do so even when he wasn’t lifting lines from a script tailor-made to benefit from that very real quality.
That’s not to say he wasn’t able to do everything else. His villainy was stunningly realised in One Hour Photo and Insomnia, his touch for the grotesque in Death to Smoochy and Worlds Greatest Dad as compelling as it was cringe-inducing, and his ability to hilariously break hearts was wonderfully exploited in Good Morning Vietnam and The Fisher King. However, the common thread that unites all the work I’ve mentioned in this paragraph and the ones above above is perhaps that he had that rarest of gifts amongst actors - he was always able to find the comedy in the tragedy and the tragedy in the comedy. I just hope now he has found peace.
Thank you Robin Williams. I never worked with you, and never met you, but you had an immeasurable effect on my life. I owe you more than I ever realised. And though the lights of the world may have unexpectedly dimmed a little today, thank you for inspiring me to try and light my own little candle.
With love and respect.
12th August 2014.
- And if these pictures have anything important to say to future generations, it’s this: I was here. I existed. I was young, I was happy, and someone cared enough about me in this world to take my picture.
Robin Williams as Sy Parrish - One Hour Photo, 2002
He’s a relaxed and intelligent interviewee, but as his star rises with each new role he is increasingly conscious of the need for a bit of discretion so that ill thought-out quotes don’t return to haunt him later.
And this discretion extends to his personal life, over which he gallantly draws a veil. “Whenever I read interviews with people and saw actors saying I’m afraid I’m not going to talk about that, I never understood that until I was finally asked, so I would like to refrain from that if you don’t mind.”
Ichabod and his coat <3
*gif credit to Ichabod-Tom*
Face Appreciation Post
From Fox’s “The Resurrection of Ichabod Crane” on YouTube
I FINALLY UNDERSTAND.
WHY DON’T THY JUST SHOW US THIS CHART IN GEOGRAPHY???
DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG O HAVE USED GB AND ENGLAND AND THE UK INTERCHANGEABLY??????????????????????????????
A LONG ASS TIME. NONE OF MY TEACHERS EVER CORRECTED ME.
dude wtf this is worse than us not using the metric system
I need to print this.