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| "Robin Williams Aviano" by U.S. Air Force photo/ Airman 1st Class Tabitha M. Mans. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. |
The first time I saw Robin Williams was on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson way back when. I thought he was hilarious, clever, and intelligent. "Brilliantly funny" to use a movie poster cliche.
Oh, and manic. He was definitely always "on." I didn't always appreciate his manic energy--sometimes I just wanted him to sit down and talk to the the show's host, instead of riffing. But then it wouldn't have been Robin Williams.
I wish I could find a clip of one of the jokes I remember him telling on Carson. He was riffing and made a joke about San Francisco, where he lived. (When I lived there briefly in the summer/winter of 1992, I remember someone telling me about seeing him regularly, filling up his own car at the gas station at the corner of Market and Castro.) It went something like this, "You end up in a biker bar where there are these tough, rough, hairy men, all clad in leather, and then one of them walks up to you in a menacing way and says, 'I have this fabulous recipe for quiche!'"
I'm not doing it
justice. I think this took place around 1980-83, about the time of my
coming out of ye olde closet or soon thereafter. I remember laughing out
loud, partially in shock that he had made such an obviously "gay" joke
on national TV, partially because I knew he spoke the truth!
I never felt offended by the joke because it wasn't told with malice but, instead, with a knowing irony, joie de vivre, and affection. I think Robin Williams was one of the few comedians of that time (and even today) who could tell a joke about gay people and not have it be mean, unfair, cruel, or insulting. I actually found the joke a relief. I remember feeling, wow, we do exist in the world, people know of us and not everyone thinks we're horrible people. They can celebrate our quirks and campness, rather than focus on what they see as our deficiencies or "perversions."
Compare that with Eddie Murphy's jokes about Michael Jackson and Mister T from around that time, where gay men were always the butt-end punch line (pun sort of intended) of a very smutty joke.
But then Eddie's reportedly always had more to deflect than Robin Williams did.
I also thought Robin Williams was incredibly attractive. Not in a classic, "pretty" way, but in a rugged, masculine way. He must be one of the few Hollywood types that stayed hairy, that didn't feel the need to shave and wax everything in slash-and-burn fashion. I liked his sometimes stocky build, his burly arms, his biggish nose. He looked like a real guy, one who seemed comfortable in his own skin, who could be who he was with no apologies but without rampant braggadaccio either.
So what's the point of all of this? Oh, perhaps I'm riffing as well.
Let's just say that it makes me sad to think of Robin Williams being so depressed when he had made so many of us laugh so much over the years. He certainly brought humor and kindness to my little world, in ways that I bet he couldn't imagine.
I can't imagine the pain he was going through, if he felt the impulse to take his own life. Having experienced depression myself over the years, even recently, I know what that can be like. Everything on paper looks good; your life seems to be in order and makes sense to everyone--except you. Whether it's your own insecurities and sensitivity, whether it's the casual slings and arrows from those around you, whether it's the confusing, conflicting nature of a world where Robin Williams can exist along side of epidemics, aerial bombings, beheadings, stonings, rape, murder, and people who find their previously unknown relatives after 30 years have passed, it all can be too much sometimes. It makes you question yourself and your illusions; it makes you wonder about the viability of the world around you. It makes you wonder whether it's worth carrying on, even if saying goodbye suddenly would bring so much pain and sadness to those who love you.
It makes you wonder if someone as talented and beloved as Robin Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?
Now I feel the need to watch The Birdcage, another good example of his being camp and funny but always with affection. I also want to see a bunch of other movies I missed out on over the years and then watch every episode of The Crazy Ones, his recent TV show for CBS, in which he was, once again, brilliantly funny.
Too bad there aren't many repertory cinemas around these days, where his films could be shown on the fly, in rapid succession, in public. Where the laughter, sadness, and wistfulness could be shared with others, rather than experienced and endured alone.
I never felt offended by the joke because it wasn't told with malice but, instead, with a knowing irony, joie de vivre, and affection. I think Robin Williams was one of the few comedians of that time (and even today) who could tell a joke about gay people and not have it be mean, unfair, cruel, or insulting. I actually found the joke a relief. I remember feeling, wow, we do exist in the world, people know of us and not everyone thinks we're horrible people. They can celebrate our quirks and campness, rather than focus on what they see as our deficiencies or "perversions."
Compare that with Eddie Murphy's jokes about Michael Jackson and Mister T from around that time, where gay men were always the butt-end punch line (pun sort of intended) of a very smutty joke.
But then Eddie's reportedly always had more to deflect than Robin Williams did.
I also thought Robin Williams was incredibly attractive. Not in a classic, "pretty" way, but in a rugged, masculine way. He must be one of the few Hollywood types that stayed hairy, that didn't feel the need to shave and wax everything in slash-and-burn fashion. I liked his sometimes stocky build, his burly arms, his biggish nose. He looked like a real guy, one who seemed comfortable in his own skin, who could be who he was with no apologies but without rampant braggadaccio either.
So what's the point of all of this? Oh, perhaps I'm riffing as well.
Let's just say that it makes me sad to think of Robin Williams being so depressed when he had made so many of us laugh so much over the years. He certainly brought humor and kindness to my little world, in ways that I bet he couldn't imagine.
I can't imagine the pain he was going through, if he felt the impulse to take his own life. Having experienced depression myself over the years, even recently, I know what that can be like. Everything on paper looks good; your life seems to be in order and makes sense to everyone--except you. Whether it's your own insecurities and sensitivity, whether it's the casual slings and arrows from those around you, whether it's the confusing, conflicting nature of a world where Robin Williams can exist along side of epidemics, aerial bombings, beheadings, stonings, rape, murder, and people who find their previously unknown relatives after 30 years have passed, it all can be too much sometimes. It makes you question yourself and your illusions; it makes you wonder about the viability of the world around you. It makes you wonder whether it's worth carrying on, even if saying goodbye suddenly would bring so much pain and sadness to those who love you.
It makes you wonder if someone as talented and beloved as Robin Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?
Now I feel the need to watch The Birdcage, another good example of his being camp and funny but always with affection. I also want to see a bunch of other movies I missed out on over the years and then watch every episode of The Crazy Ones, his recent TV show for CBS, in which he was, once again, brilliantly funny.
Too bad there aren't many repertory cinemas around these days, where his films could be shown on the fly, in rapid succession, in public. Where the laughter, sadness, and wistfulness could be shared with others, rather than experienced and endured alone.
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