Editor, White Cover Magazine
I was away on vacation when Robin Williams died, and I never really felt like writing anything about him or really posting anything because, well, everyone else already was. But he was my favourite actor, ever since I was 5 and 6 and could process what was happening on the screen – watching Aladdin or Hook or Mrs Doubtfire – to when I was a teenager, and then up until now. It’s amazing that he could churn out ‘dramedic’ performances in Good Will Hunting and Good Morning Vietnam alongside and at the same time as his stand-up and his screwball, oddball, anything-ball comedy.
I think that’s the mark of a great entertainer, not surprisingly – to connect with you at almost any time, no matter what he’s doing, forever.
He was the sort of actor who didn’t just make the films he was in, but he transcended them. You could watch a terrible movie he was in and come out loving it – you didn’t remember whether the film itself was great or awful, just that Robin Williams was in it and, damn, was he funny. I don’t know if Patch Adams was good. I don’t know if Jack was good. But I know I enjoyed them. I know I laughed. If I had a softer core, I might have cried. He was like Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, blowing the rest of the cast out of the water even as he lifted them up to his own perch.
It’s hard to say something original about him now, and I tried my hardest in that last paragraph. But it’s been two weeks and there have been thousands of memorials.
Still, Billy Crystal sort of crushed it.