Good night, Robin

The world got a little less funny today; Robin Williams died at his Tiburon home, age 63. It was an apparent suicide; I don’t want to think about the asphyxia part.

As anyone who’s been at all sentient during the past few decades knows, Williams was manically hysterical. At times he sounded like he’d ingested helium, although it might well have been cocaine. Williams was pretty open about his problems with drugs and alcohol.

To tell you the truth, I found Williams’ humor a tad overwhelming; he was better in small doses. But it turned out that his dramatic acting was extraordinary. I can watch him in Good Will Hunting again and again. Every single time, I find something more to know about his character, Sean Maguire.

Okay—I liked him in Hook, too. He was great as the forever-boy who somehow grew up and had to recover that childlike and childish capability. And he made a great Teddy Roosevelt in the Night at the Museum franchise. And he was a completely convincing killer in Insomnia.

Williams was much more than an actor and comedian. He, Billy Crystal and Whoopi Goldberg pioneered the idea of telethons for charity that focused entirely on humor. And he supported and funded many other charitable organizations.

  

I expect we’ll learn more about Williams’ demons in the days to come. Must have been some massive load of pain in him to lead him to find a permanent solution to it.

Damn.