Remembering Robin
Today I was incredibly saddened by the news of Robin Williams's death. I don't usually feel that deeply moved by the death of celebrities because I realize that even if I enjoyed their work, they were total strangers and I didn't really know them any more than I knew a gas station attendant in Kansas. But the loss of Robin Williams really does feel like the loss of a friend, because he has always been such an omni-present force in my life. I don't ever remember a time when I didn't know his name. It's almost as if graduating from infancy required a mastery of shapes, colors, and Robin Williams. Ever since I was a boy, he's been one of my favorite actors, comedians, voices, and personalities. He was an inspiration to an aspiring humorist, and a consistent source of entertainment to a fan for as long as I can remember.
When I was barely old enough to form memories, I knew him first as Mork, watching seemingly endless reruns of Mork & Mindy. The show captured my young imagination so much that a few years later, despite all logic and evidence to the contrary, I refused to accept that my third grade teacher, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Pam Dawber, wasn't secretly keeping the goofy alien back at her house. I tried to play it cool, hoping that if I became her favorite student, she might invite me over some afternoon to help send a report back to Orson.
Mork & Mindy also has the distinction of including the first joke I ever specifically remember not understanding. In the first episode, Mork arrives on earth and, silly thing that he is, puts his suit on backwards. Mindy sees him, mistakes his attire for that of a priest, and starts referring to him as Father. Not being a church-goer, I couldn't for the life of me imagine why a backwards suit made Robin Williams look like her dad.
My own father used to like to entertain us by buying story CDs, since he loved CDs and we loved stories. We had many of them, covering everything from fairy tales and classic Americana to african folk tales. But my absolute favorites were The Fool and the Flying Ship and Pecos Bill, both narrated by Robin Williams. The former had a companion video that we would occasionally rent from the local library, but the latter was the one I loved most dearly. It combined so many of my favorite things, including humor, cowboys, and of course, the most mesmerizing voice I had yet encountered. I had a book that you could read along with the CD (that's right, Robin Williams taught me to read), and I'd read it endlessly, with or without the CD. But even when reading the book by itself, I still heard all the characters that had been brought to life so perfectly by the trusty narrator.
His impact on my childhood didn't stop there, of course. We nearly wore out our VHS copies of Mrs. Doubtfire and Hook. Ferngully got a rent just because I knew that bat's voice from somewhere. I was first introduced to Shakespeare by an animated HBO series that he hosted. Hell, I even liked Flubber. But to this day, the movie I have seen the most times in the theater is still Aladdin, an amazing film made perfect by the manic, rapid-fire Genie, who couldn't have been played by anyone but my favorite actor. By the end of its run, there was no one in the theater except for me and an increasingly annoyed family who would no doubt have seen ANYTHING else, as long as it didn't have a fucking carpet in it. But I didn't care, I just couldn't get enough.I loved Robin Williams, and I eventually became so obsessed with him that when they filmed Jumanji a couple towns over from me, I was thrilled to know that our paths had crossed. Never mind the fact that we hadn't actually met, and we weren't even technically in the same state. I was breathing the same mountain air as my hero, and I could feel his essence flowing through me, making the blood that ran through my veins a little funnier. It was only a matter of time before our paths would cross for real and he would recognized his gift within me, and my life of Hollywood stardom would begin. Or so I liked to believe.
His impact continued long after my childhood. When I discovered standup comedy, I was delighted to find that Robin Williams had once been a comic. A Night at the Met was one of the first cassettes I ever owned, and I listened to it so many times I could recite it from memory. And when I started to develop an interest in more serious and dramatic films, he was there again in movies like The Dead Poets Society, Patch Adams, and Good Morning Vietnam. By this point, I was as in love with his talent and range as I was with his familiarity. He had always been there, and he'd grown up with me.
And now he's gone, and the world isn't the same. We lost someone truly great today. And even if I didn't know him personally, I feel that loss as though he was one of my closest friends. Like so many fans, I'll never get to tell him how much of an impact he's had on my life. Like so many aspiring filmmakers, my hopes of one day working with the master are dashed. And like so many kids at heart, I'll never be able to hear the Genie sing without a faint trace of sadness behind the smiles. But the song will continue, and I'll fondly remember the man who taught me the tune.
-TC