Art by Eva Rinaldi
Jordan Pedersen wishes he could wish for more wishes.
It’s easy to poke fun at Robin Williams in the cold light of adulthood. Robin Williams was not cool. Robin Williams was not distant or ironic. He was the opposite: a human turbine, a supernova of comedic energy. He talked too much. He made a lot of frankly crappy movies. It’s as easy to poke fun at Robin Williams as it will be impossible to replace him.
Many of the remembrances I’ve heard so far of Robin Williams, found dead on August 11th at 63 of an apparent suicide, have focused on the strength of his dramatic work: as crime writer Walter Finch in Insomnia, disturbed Sy Parrish in One Hour Photo, English teacher John Keating in Dead Poets Society.
I can’t argue with their praise, and it’s copacetic to highlight dramatic work in the wake of an event so dark. But ultimately, Robin Williams is a clown for the ages, in the truest, most complimentary sense.
For anyone between the ages of 25 and 35, Robin Williams was an indelible part of our childhoods. As the faintly crazed divorced father-cum-crossdresser in 1993’s Mrs. Doubtfire, he was so firecracker hilarious that, even as an adult, you can forgive the somewhat ludicrous concept. There are so many unbelievably funny parts of that movie that it’s hard to pick a favorite: the makeup session with Harvey Fierstein featuring Williams’ trademark stable of impersonations; the joke about the alcoholic who got killed by the Guinness truck; the run-by fruiting.
My parents were divorced too, so maybe the premise actually resonated with me at the time. Or maybe it’s just that Robin Williams is the funniest person on the face of the fucking planet when you’re seven years old.
His role as the Genie in 1992’s Aladdin essentially cemented Williams’ place as the goofy uncle every kid wished she had. Seriously, is there anything more attractive to a kid than a gigantic cuddly blue genie who could do every funny voice you’ve ever wanted to hear and grant you WISHES? Is Aladdin even a movie without the Genie? I know I couldn’t give less of a shit whether Aladdin’s pauper-to-prince arc came to fruition. I just wanted the Genie to be free.
Elsewhere, Williams proved he was equally adept at making grown-ups laugh in the, again, so-funny-it-makes-you-want-to-barf The Birdcage. He showed he could perform heroically in weak material in Jack and Jumanji. Let’s not forget either that he was still a crack standup, and, again, a tireless one. I’ll always remember the small army of water bottles he marshaled in his Live on Broadway special and how his shirt went from red to aubergine from the sheer profusion of his sweat. And, again, how fucking funny it was.
His star had waned by the time he died, but he managed to rack up some late-career highlights. I particularly appreciated him as a notably lower-key version of himself, mourning the passing of a sonofabitch comedy club owner, in the third season of Louie.
He seemed by all accounts to be a superbly good human being as well. He founded Comic Relief with Billy Crystal and Whoopi Goldberg to raise money for the homeless, and you probably saw his grinning face on commercials for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.
In light of his passing, it’s somewhat heartbreaking that his titular role in Patch Adams ended up being such a source of derision, because that’s what Robin Williams was to so many of us: a man who dedicated his entire life to making other people feel better, from lonely kids to adults wanting to laugh like they’re kids again.
I think that’s why, in the wake of his passing, all of us put aside the aloofness of being a grown-up. “Robin Williams has died, and along with him, my childhood,” a friend wrote on Facebook. Because when Robin Williams dies, we’re all kids again.
This kid will miss you, Robin. Thank you for sharing your love and your light.
