Like everyone else, I was stunned
yesterday to hear of the passing of comedian and actor Robin Williams,
apparently by his own hand. A sad clown who brought gut-busting laughter to
countless millions for over 35 years while simultaneously wrestling with dark
personal demons, Williams was also an Oscar-caliber dramatic actor of such
classics as Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting. The world has lost a
talent that arguably bore the gift of genius.
About that genius: among the outpouring
of reactions on social media yesterday, I was struck by a keen observation on
Facebook from political commentator Steve Hayward that Williams’ “zigzag streak
of lightning in the brain” (a phrase once used to describe
Winston Churchill’s greatness) was “palpable”: “He wasn’t a person of comic
imagination who merely thought up jokes. He was way beyond that. You could see
his wit (not even an adequate word) explode in his head right in front of you.”
Very true, and I can confirm this from my own brief personal experience with
Williams.
Back in the late ‘80s I worked in an
independent bookstore in an upscale neighborhood of San Francisco. Williams, an
avid reader, used to come in now and then to browse. I would just nod hello and
leave him alone; he seemed to appreciate having some quiet time to himself and
not being hassled because of his celebrity. But on at least a couple of
occasions when I was present, when there was a small crowd of customers (perhaps
8-12 people) in the small checkout space at the front of the store, he couldn’t
resist launching into an hilarious impromptu show for long minutes, riffing on anyone
and anything in sight.
On these occasions, however, as we
all laughed I kept thinking, “This isn’t normal somehow. It isn’t just improv.
It’s like he’s channeling the comedy
from somewhere, and he’s not in control of it – it’s in control of him.” This
was more evident to me from being in his immediate presence than when I viewed
him on television or onstage. I saw something literally pass over his face as
he transformed from customer to performer, as if he were suddenly possessed.
The word “genius” originally referred to an external being, a sort
of guardian or guiding spirit who accompanies a person from birth to
death. Through the centuries that spirit was internalized and the word came to
refer to a person who possesses extraordinary intelligence or talent. But I
wonder though, after watching Robin Williams up close and personal, if it is
not the extraordinary talent that possesses the person. Perhaps that’s why
genius can be a curse as much as a gift.
In any case, Williams will go down
in pop culture history for that genius. But he should also be celebrated for the
reputation he earned as a kind, genuinely empathetic man who went above and
beyond the call of duty for others. In the wake of his passing, people began
posting online their personal experiences of the ways in which the big-hearted Williams
privately offered help to others: a cancer sufferer, a teen Mrs. Doubtfire fan dying of a brain tumor, a
former high school wrestling coach struggling with depression, to name a
few – not to mention the troops he
repeatedly traveled overseas to entertain (like his character in Good Morning, Vietnam), for which he was
called the Bob Hope of our time.
(This article originally appeared here on Acculturated, 8/12/14)
