Magic in the Manic: Remembering Robin Williams

Greg Vellante

Before I ever knew who he was by name, or even before I saw his face, Robin Williams was a part of my life. As a child of the 90s, few memories have remained from the first half of that decade, but there is one image I can recollect with near crystal-clear lucidity: my VHS copy of Disney’s Aladdin. Oh, how I remember everything about it. The purple and pinkish color scheme of the poster design, printed upon one of those squishy plastic cases that were a signature of Disney home releases at the time, and the endless viewings. So many potent memories arise when recalling Aladdin, but none more so than the indescribable joy I’d feel when Aladdin would rub that lamp and Genie would appear. That is when the magic truly began.

Genie was unlike any character I had ever encountered. He made me howl with laughter. He delighted me with his antics. He was fast, and funny, and musical, and undeniably affable for a cartoon character. Even as a child, I recognized something special in that voice behind Genie’s diverse personality. There was a life and soul to it. A uniqueness and a warmth. When I recalled scenes from the movie involving Genie, Williams’ voice rang clearly in my head, even though I had never heard the name Robin Williams before. When he sang “You ain’t never had a friend like me,” I believed it. I really had never had a friend like Genie.

As time inevitably passed, as it always does, Williams represented an integral part of my life all throughout its first decade. During the 90s he became an adult Peter Pan in Hook. He was Mrs. Doubtfire. And Jack. I can’t tell you how many times I watched Jumanji, or how unreasonably excited I was when I first saw the trailer of Williams dancing around with green slime in Flubber.

I began the early years of my life with that special voice and soon a smiling, charming face became attached to it. During this time of growing up I would best compare Robin Williams to the type of goofy uncle that I’d see all the time and who always knew how to make me smile.

This is why, on Monday, when I received two near-simultaneous texts stating variations of the same thing, the gut punch was undeniably real. Robin Williams was dead? The impact was heightened later when I relayed the news to three friends over the course of an hour, all of whom had not heard about what happened and were very blatantly struck with the same noticeable sadness that I was.

There is certainly a deep personal connection to Williams felt by those of my generation, because as time went by our collective goofy uncle evolved and revealed to all of us that he had other sides. My initial viewing of Good Will Hunting was a transcendent experience – the first time my goofy uncle decided to sport a beard and make me think, feel, and choke-up in addition to the laughter. I’ve lost count of how many times I have revisited that film since.

This balance perfectly encapsulates the career of Robin Williams, a legacy created by a man whose face held endless joy, whose eyes held infinite sadness, and who utilized both ends of the spectrum to bring a true gravitas to his performances, regardless of what they entailed. He was both masks in that famous theatrical pairing of comedy and tragedy. He would bring a family-friendly lightheartedness to films like Mrs. Doubtfire and Jack; embody immense, almost superfluous sentimentality in films like Patch Adams; and then scare the bejesus out of us, such as his creepy turn in the thriller One Hour Photo.

His comic personality was as diverse as a chameleon. He delivered on-the-cuff delirium in his comedy, seemingly candid but with the coolness of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. On the contrary, his dramatic performances carried a weight to them, naturally embodied and truly realized. There was mystery in Robin’s mastery of the craft, an inventive one-of-a-kind art form, resulting in myself and so many others who have been blessed with countless gifts delivered straight to our hearts and minds via Williams’ performances.

Oh so many gifts. The zany titular performance of his first starring feature, Robert Altman’s Popeye (1980). A great turn in The World According to Garp (1982). Who could forget his energy in Good Morning, Vietnam (1987) Dead Poets Society (1989). Awakenings (1990). The Fisher King (1991). The Birdcage (1996). What Dreams May Come (1998). Even more recent work, such as the dark comedy World’s Greatest Dad (2009), or a one-episode stint as himself on season 3 of Louie, highlight the eclectic career that defined him.

His impact is undeniable. His legacy is clear. Robin Williams has touched so many lives, including my own, without the necessity of a face-to-face encounter. Because that was what was so special about Williams and his performances – they actually felt like face-to-face encounters. He possessed a personality that surpassed the screen and absorbed the viewer.

There was magic in his manic, something truly individual and essentially indescribable. But there was also the sadness. While comedy and tragedy have fueled his performances, it is the latter that has ultimately claimed this wonderful personality from his loved ones and his fans.

Lest we forget that those who entertain us often also suffer, with recent deaths such as Williams and Philip Seymour Hoffman shining light on very serious yet mostly invisible mental diseases. But despite his own demons, Williams understood a simple smile and a laugh could genuinely change someone’s day. Or someone’s life. It could even change the world a little bit.

So thanks for the smiles, Robin. Thanks for the laughs. Thanks for the memories.

We ain’t never had a friend like you.