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Robin Williams Has Left the Planet
August 12, 2014  | By Noel Holston  | 1 comment
 

The apparent suicide of comedian/actor Robin Williams has affected people more personally than any celebrity death I can recall. It’s not just that the tweets of the rich and famous who worked with him or knew him socially are warmer, sadder and more genuine sounding than we usually see, it’s that everyday folks  with whom I speak or communicate with via Facebook act as though they’ve lost a family member.

A big part of that, no doubt, has to do with Williams’ ubiquity.  He’s deeply embedded in the consciousness of at least two generations. After he catapulted to national attention in the ABC sitcom Mork & Mindy in 1978, he was seemingly everywhere, starring in movies as a hyperkinetic Vietnam disc jockey, a nanny in drag, a schizophrenic street person, doing voice work for Disney animations and stand-up specials for HBO, enlivening talk shows, and co-hosting Comic Relief fundraisers with his super-friends Billy Crystal and Whoopi Goldberg.

But the strong reaction to Williams’ death also speaks to his warmth and vulnerability. His comedy was often manic but seldom if ever mean. The title of his first comedy album, Reality…What a Concept, conveyed his bemusement with the human condition, his included. His characters, even the villains he occasionally played so chillingly, had something touching about them. And few celebrities have been as open about their weaknesses and addictions.

Neither of Williams’ two prime-time series, Mork and this past season’s The Crazy Ones on CBS, won a Peabody Award. He was, however, an integral part of two Peabody-winning specials that remind us of both his range and his heart: the post-9/11 Tribute to Heroes telethon and HBO’s Dear America: Letters Home from Vietnam. He was one of the celebrity readers.

Like most people, I can’t begin to count the occasions on which Williams made me laugh – Tonight Show appearances, Good Morning Vietnam, Jumanji, Aladdin, Mork. And speaking of the latter, I will never forget my only in-person encounter with Williams.

In the summer of 1978, ABC trotted Williams out at an evening event for a herd of TV critics visiting Los Angeles for fall-season press previews. Williams had had very limited TV exposure up to that point – a couple of cameos on Richard Pryor’s short-lived 1977 variety show, a guest shot on Eight Is Enough. He’d done a version of Mork, the alien from planet Ork, in a Happy Days episode the previous spring, but few if any critics were monitoring Fonzie and company on a weekly basis at that point.

Williams thus stepped on stage that night as an almost totally unknown commodity. And what we critics experienced was an odd sensation: tumultuous merriment combined with awe.

Built like a collegiate wrestler, trained as a street mime, programmed like a Univac computer with cultural knowledge that spanned from Sigmund Freud to Fay Wray to Elmer Fudd, with a data-retrieval speed that suggested a microchip not yet invented, Williams was an amazing comedy machine. He was like Jonathan Winters, his improv hero, on a concentrated caffeine drink,  also not yet invented.  

He was only 27, but all his trademark shtick – the voices, the movie, political and literary references, the social awareness, joined and juxtaposed with staggering quickness – was all there. He was fully formed. 

When I subsequently wrote about his exhilarating stand-up and the interview session that followed it for the fall TV preview section of The Orlando Sentinel, we were at a loss at first to come up with an illustration that did this wunderkind, this comedic cyclotron, full justice. Then one of our graphic designers, Sarah Keyes, noticed that ABC had provided several promotional photos of Williams in his soon-to-be trademark Mork suspenders doing stand-up. His arms were at his sides, his hands outstretched, palms up, as if to say, “Can you believe this?” And in each photo his facial expression was different.

Sarah’s pre-Photoshop brainstorm, based on reading my attempts to describe Williams’ hyper-animated mind, was to cut out three of the heads and paste them onto the full length photo. Williams thus appeared to be juggling multiple variations of himself like so many bowling balls.

Robin Williams kept his phenomenal juggling act going for 36 more years, showing us so many faces, so many sides, all the while battling the downsides of such prodigious creative gifts. We can be thankful for that, even as we mourn.

 
 
 
 
 
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kushal kumar
I would like readers to go through my article- " Reading suicide in the birth chart of actor Robin Williams" - scheduled for publication in the Fall Issue of The Astrologer's Notebook from North Port, Florida by Joseph Polansky. The quarterly issue is likely to be in the market by the end of September this year. Applying Vedic astrology, this writer has examined the aspect of actor Robin's suspected suicide and concluded : Yes, the operative planets in the month of August this year has confirmed the accuracy of general belief that actor Robin Williams died of suicide. I wish you all to enjoy reading my analysis of the birth chart of actor Robin limited to the point of suicide.
Sep 9, 2014   |  Reply
 
 
 
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Good news, TVWW readers: David’s new book from Doubleday, The Platinum Age of Television: From I Love Lucy to The Walking Dead, How TV Became Terrific is available on Amazon for under $20.

Doubleday says: “Darwin had his theory of evolution, and David Bianculli has his. Bianculli's theory has to do with the concept of quality television: what it is and, crucially, how it got that way."

"The Platinum Age of Television is an effusive guidebook that plots the path from the 1950s’ Golden Age to today’s era of quality TV. For instance, animation evolved from Rocky and His Friends to South Park; variety shows moved from The Ed Sullivan Show to Saturday Night Live; and family sitcoms grew from I Love Lucy to Modern Family. A high point is the author’s interviews with Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, Norman Lear, Bob Newhart, Matt Groening, Larry David, Amy Schumer and many others...Bianculli has written a highly readable history." —The Washington Post

 

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