Robin Williams holds a curious place in the cultural memory of the millennial generation. For an audience far too young to have any memory of the manic quick-fire impressions of his eighties stand-up heyday, he is instead remembered for his joyous, decidedly more family-friendly, 1990s performances in Aladdin, Jumanji and Mrs Doubtfire. In these roles he was warm and funny; more of a fun uncle then the substance-guzzling smart-ass of his earlier work. It’s odd, then, that his career took such a downward spiral. Despite never starring in a historic flop, or airing any indefensible personal issues in public, he slipped away from A-list roles, becoming a supporting player in the kind of movies he used to headline (the Night at the Museum series). Even though some of his finest performances came since the turn of the century, such as his dual psychopathic roles in One Hour Photo and Insomniac, he never achieved the critical comeback that several of his contemporaries, such as Michael Keaton, have enjoyed.
Then, on August 11th last year, the world learned of Williams’ suicide. Despite him speaking candidly to the media on a number of occasions about his history of depression, many had assumed that such issues were behind him as he settled into his 60s: a father of three children. Here is not the place to speculate about why he took his own life (the media coverage in the days following his death provided more than enough speculation) but it stands as a tragic reminder of the dark disparities between personal demons and public personas that exist for many of those in the spotlight. Indeed, Williams’ colleagues and friends, John Belushi and Richard Pryor are but two of the many examples of prominent comedians who wrestled with addiction and depression throughout their careers.
If there’s one tiny speck of light in the horrifying tragedy of Williams’ death, it’s that the torrent of tributes following his death has shone a light on the actor’s career, allowing some of his most underrated performances to resurface. In these films a very different performer is on display from his more well-known roles, a man capable of throwing himself into a character and articulating weighty topics with gravitas and heart, proving he was far more than just a family entertainer.
Coming along on a wave of movies emphasising the dehumanising effect of the Vietnam War (including Platoon and Full Metal Jacket), Good Morning Vietnam took the exact opposite approach in showing us the flawed, real humanity of those involved in the conflict. Although its big-heartedness occasionally runs the risk of derailing a compelling narrative about how humour can provide comfort in a hellish situation – a message obviously close to Williams’ heart – it’s a hugely poignant demonstration of his talents.
Even tougher to watch considering the tragic end of Williams’ story is What Dreams May Come. Derided at the time for its perceived sentimentality (a recurring theme in Williams’ career), it is instead an imaginative and beautifully designed fantasy film that just happens to be set in heaven. The film is entirely sold by Williams, who, even in his worst movies, always remained crucially relatable, and its depiction of hell is, well, hellish.
In amongst these drama-focussed roles, Williams never neglected his comedy roots. In 1996 he took the lead in The Birdcage as a gay drag club owner whose son becomes engaged to the daughter of a republican senator. The film is brash, unsurprisingly camp and riotously funny as Williams and his partner attempt to pass themselves as a WASP couple for Gene Hackman’s bigoted senator, before the convolutions of a drawn-out dinner scene reveal their true nature. That the film succeeds in being so warm and funny, whilst providing an insightful commentary on the status of same-sex couples in the U.S., is largely thanks to Williams’ ‘all in’ performance.
Those three are just a few of the surprisingly consistent runs Williams was on throughout the 1980s and 90s and show the nuance that he was capable of reaching as an performer in both comedy and drama (not to mention his Oscar-nominated roles in Dead Poet’s Society, The Fisher King and Good Will Hunting, all of which he excels in).
So why did he not receive the recognition he deserved as one of the greats during his lifetime? The answer is simple. Williams’ position in Hollywood as the joyous performer in family-blockbuster comedies had a shelf life. As the kids who loved his films grew up, a new generation of children gravitated towards new CGI-driven franchises and families no longer bought tickets based on a dependable star. Without this recognition, Williams was unable to drive the riskier projects he had previously headlined and so was unable break his typecast as the lead of a type of movie that no longer existed.
No-one can say what direction Williams’ career would have followed next. Whether he would have found himself the right acclaimed role to build his reputation as a respected elder statesman, a la Tom Hanks or Jeff Bridges, or continued to appear in the odd mainstream role, never reaching his previous heights, is unknown. As an audience, many of whom were too young to see his earlier films upon their first release, all we can do is look back and enjoy the vast talents of a man who spent far too long unappreciated.
Peter Brearley
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