Mourning the Death of Greatness, Lamenting the Lack of Its Rebirth -- On the Passing of Robin Williams and Other Legends

Just past 6:00pm on Monday, my friend Dave texted me:

Most shocking death since Michael?

At that point I had not yet heard the news, and though I correctly assumed the gist of Dave's query--that a really famous person had died, perhaps more shockingly than anyone since Michael Jackson in June 2009--for a moment I wondered if maybe he was just posing a question without imminent relevance, as Dave and I often text each other seeking recollections and opinions about music, movies, sports, etc.

When I looked and found that it was Robin Williams who had passed, the news was certainly unexpected, but whatever the delineation, I would say my reaction was more one of surprise than of shock.

I knew that Williams had had heart issues, and even in reading that suicide was suspected--and has since been confirmed and detailed--I recalled that the legendary comedian and actor had spoken of suffering from depression and struggling with addiction.

So--as I conveyed back to Dave--in terms of pure shock, the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman earlier this year came more completely out of left field (based on what I knew at the time) and hit me with more force. 

Truth is, that unlike Hoffman, I hadn't paid much attention to Robin Williams in recent years.

I only made it through a few minutes of one episode of The Crazy Ones, his sitcom with Sarah Michelle Gellar that was on CBS last season before being cancelled.

In looking at his credits on IMDB, it seems the last film in which Williams had a starring role that I saw anew was 2002's Insomnia, and though I very much like several of his earlier movies, I hadn't recently revisited them.

Although I believe it apt to call Robin Williams the best talk show guest ever, I can't recall a specific appearance of late, and remember thinking at some point that his manic stream-of-consciousness shtick had become a bit over-the-top and repetitive on late night TV.

And while I enjoyed seeing him live at the Chicago Theatre in 2008--on his now even more painfully titled Weapons of Self-Destruction stand-up tour--I didn't think he was nearly as good as in 2002 at the same venue.

That 2002 appearance was one of the most memorable of the 1,500+ live performances I've ever seen. (Williams was part of another in doing a stand-up set at the 1986 Conspiracy of Hope concert at the Rosemont Horizon that also featured the Police, U2, Peter Gabriel, Lou Reed and Bryan Adams.)

Not only was Williams fantastically funny at the Chicago in 2002, but I've never had a better seat for any show.

Rather amazingly.

You see, I typically select the cheapest ticket option for any show I attend, for I would much rather go to more shows with cheap seats than fewer shows with good seats.

I had purchased four tickets to one of Williams two shows at the Chicago Theater that February, which sold out instantly. 

The other three were for a co-worker who was a good friend at the time, his now wife and his mother, none of whom would have likely gone otherwise had I not been able to score tickets as soon as they went on sale.

The tickets I bought were over $60 apiece with Ticketmaster fees, but were in the very last row of the Chicago Theatre. I was perfectly fine with these as I usually sit in the nosebleeds, the venue isn't that big, I always bring binoculars and I was seeing a famous guy telling jokes, not a chorus line of beauty queens.

My friend understood the situation, but when we got to the theater and climbed to the top, let's just say his mom was doing a whole lot of kvetching about our shitty seats.

Miraculously, for no known reason, a woman who legitimately turned out to be a representative of
Robin's--we were rather skeptical of being scammed--came by our lofty perch and offered to exchange our tickets for four in the front row.

For free.

We wound up in the very first row, dead center. I swear I could see Robin Williams' nose hairs, and I'm sure plenty of his saliva landed on me as he excitedly told jokes with his trademark fervor.

But it was well worth it; not just to be that close to a living legend who was truly remarkable that night--with largely the act performed in his Robin Williams on Broadway HBO special--but because of the way it shut up my friend's mom.

So for reasons that also include liking Robin dating back to Mork & Mindy in my childhood and many of his movies--Good Morning Vietnam, Awakenings, Good Will Hunting, Patch Adams, Aladdin and Insomnia being among my favorites, with several more that I will watch or re-watch soon--I am quite saddened by his death, especially at his own hands.

As I posted on Facebook, it's heartbreaking that depression can be so crippling, even for someone who brought the world so much laughter. 

Thursday's revelation by his wife, Susan Schneider, that Robin was in the early stages of Parkinson's disease, only added to the sorrow for a man who was clearly suffering more than the public ever knew.

Since Williams' death I have read, seen and heard many tributes to his brilliance as a comedian and an actor, recaps of his best movies and great roles, recollections by his friends and peers that almost universally convey what a nice guy he was, stories decrying the ravages of depression, articles encouraging those who need help to seek it and urging America to do a better job addressing mental illness, a TIME piece on the connection between Parkinson's and depression, and sensitive thoughts on the topic of suicide--which, like substance abuse, often isn't prevented by one's wealth, intelligence, renown, talent and even supportive family life.

There have also been horrifying stories about how Williams' daughter Zelda was driven off Twitter by assholes, and a shrewd piece by the Chicago Tribune's Chris Jones about the ubiquity of social media mourning by celebrities and the public alike.

If you've wanted to, you've read--or can--much more astute pieces on any or all of the above than I'm capable of writing. 

So although my regard for Robin Williams is certainly high enough for me to do so, I am not writing this simply to pay tribute to him nor to comment on the circumstances surrounding his death at age 63. (I did write such a piece about Philip Seymour Hoffman.)

Rather, while it is certainly secondary to the grief, sorrow and loss Williams' family, friends and fans are feeling, I can't help but also see his death as yet another example of the erosion of artistic greatness that doesn't seem likely to be replenished in equal measure.

And it reminds me that along with rock and roll, jazz, painting, movie acting and many other creative idioms, stand-up comedy is another art form in which the ratio of here-and-gone (or at least greying) to up-and-coming is seemingly 100-to-1.

That I, and likely you, can't name another comedian--especially a living one--with a style and wit comparable to Robin Williams' is one thing.

Illustration by Tom Richmond, (c)2014
 from tomrichmond.com/blog

But neither I nor Dave could come up with the name of a current great or really well-known stand-up comedian under the age of 40. 

People are still paying good money to see Don Rickles, Joan Rivers, Jackie Mason and Bill Cosby, all well beyond 75.

Sadly, two of the greatest ever, George Carlin and Richard Pryor, didn't make it that far.

Jerry Seinfeld is now 60 and Steven Wright 59. I was surprised to learn that Chris Rock--who I still think of as a young comedian--is now 49, and even relatively big names like Dane Cook and Joel McHale are over 40. Jimmy Fallon will be in a month.

If you know of anyone of a younger age who you consider comparable to comics like those above, please let me know.

But to my awareness, or lack thereof, the dearth of brilliant comedians who are reaching the masses is one more reason to rue not only the passing of Robin Williams, but that of David Brenner and John Pinette earlier this year. Plus comedy legends Sid Caesar, Harold Ramis and Rik Mayall, even if they weren't really stand-ups.

And while I certainly do not mean to disparage the undoubtedly vast number of talented and dedicated young artists who may not deserve to remain under-the-radar, my lament goes well beyond the realm of stand-up comedians.

How many actors or actresses under 40 do you perceive as being or likely ever becoming as legendary, iconic or accomplished as Williams, Hoffman, Lauren Bacall, James Garner, Mickey Rooney, Elaine Stritch, Ruby Dee, Eli Wallach,  Maximilian Schell, Bob Hoskins or Shirley Temple? Or even as beloved for character roles as Ralph Waite, Ann B. Davis, Russell Johnson and Dave Madden?

Yes, there are many great writers out there, including rather young ones, but it's doubtful we'll see the likes of Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Maya Angelou again.

If you've perused this site for any bit of time, you'll likely have noted that most concerts I see are by musicians over 50, 60 or even 70, for as I've often lamented, there aren't many new rock artists I much care for. And I want to enjoy the legends I love while I still can.

Though I never did see Johnny Winter, Bobby Womack, Pete Seeger, Phil Everly, Tommy Ramone or jazz legends Horace Silver and Charlie Haden other than on screen, I don't sense that their ilk is being regenerated anytime soon, nor a pop lyricist on par with Gerry Goffin.

Even though great athletes, coaches and broadcasters will likely always remain relatively plentiful, the likes of Tony Gwynn, Jack Ramsey, Ralph Kiner and Jerry Coleman were all rather unique.

And with nothing but esteem for all the brilliant doctors and surgeons who better the world, and the world of sport, Dr. Frank Jobe had an impact that very few will likely ever have again.

There are many reasons to be saddened by the untimely passing of Robin Williams, and others who adorn the Chicago Tribune's notable deaths of 2014 photo gallery that expands almost every day.

Excepting any with whom we have direct relationships, our sorrow for celebrities who die typically involves admiration and appreciation for the work they did, regrets that there won't be more of it, a wistfulness for our eroded youth, a universal sense of sympathy for their loved ones and/or a reminder of our own mortality.

For me, add to that a frequent feeling of artistic brilliance being erased from the world at a far greater rate than it is being added.

So in saying "Farewell, Robin Williams" with an acute sense of sorrow, I also more broadly bemoan the probability of almost never again saying "Nanu Nanu" to anyone of his kind.

Here's To Growing Old and Fat, Like Elizabeth Taylor

What did you think of when you heard that Elizabeth Taylor had died?

Did you think of young Liz, a child star who grew into a woman considered among the world's foremost beauties, and a wonderful actress who earned two Oscars and three more nominations by the time she was 35?

Or did you think of old Liz, who had largely stopped acting, grown quite large and become a punchline for her excessive weight, odd friendship with Michael Jackson, eight marriages and often peculiar behavior?

For those old enough to have witnessed Taylor at the peak of her film stardom and sex appeal, I'd imagine thoughts of "young Liz" were substantive if not predominant. And not coincidentally, the vast majority of U.S. newspapers today feature a photo of her from at least 50 years ago or so.

But for those of us under 50, the sad truth is that the prevailing public image of Elizabeth Taylor during our lifetime has been that of a freak show, not a once exquisite screen legend aging gracefully. It would be natural for many of us to remember Liz more so as tabloid fodder and the subject of late-night jests--I still recall a Joan Rivers joke from at least 25+ years ago ridiculing Taylor for having "more chins than a Chinese phone book"--than as a "Hollywood goddess."

Yet no matter what age you are, from 12 to 104, I imagine the images conjured up by the name "Marilyn Monroe" are primarily that of a sexy, albeit long-dead, starlet (even if her--nor Taylor's--body type was never akin to today's fashion model barometer for feminine beauty).

So in living to age 79, much of the last half of it not so glamorously, Elizabeth Taylor largely decimated her youthful iconography. After all, you don't see ubiquitous posterized images of Liz like you do of Marilyn or Audrey Hepburn.  

Taylor isn't alone in illustrating that for the famous, living a long life can be considerably worse for one's public image than dying young.

James Dean died at 24, shortly after filming Giant with Taylor and Rock Hudson. He's forever remembered as he looks at left.

Yet while Marlon Brando certainly continues to be held in high regard as one of the greatest actors ever, his legacy was somewhat tarnished by getting old & fat and having had 12 children by at least 5 women (some of the mothers are still unidentified), with one of his kids killing the lover of another, who then killed herself. So like Taylor, Brando's obituaries had to devote space to some less than savory aspects of his later life.

Being forever frozen in time isn't only limited to Hollywood stars. In music, you can die young and be  worshipped forever like Jim Morrison, Gram Parsons and Duane Allman or stay alive to be largely forgotten and/or besieged by struggles like Sly Stone, David Crosby and Gregg Allman. Even Elvis, who died relatively young at 42, is commonly derided for his old, fat and drug-addled years.

But while I imagine it's not too much fun being reminded of how young and gorgeous you once were, I would think Elizabeth Taylor should've been thrilled to be her, rather than Marilyn. Or even Audrey, who died at 63 or Natalie Wood--an oft-forgotten contemporary--who drowned when she was just 43.

After all, according to an article I read today, Taylor--who was one of the first public figures to decry and raise money to fight AIDS--raised more than $270 million for AIDS prevention and care. She is survived by four children, ten grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. And with the click of a button, Netflix subscribers can instantly be reminded how great she looked and acted in Giant, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Cleopatra, with many other movies--like her Oscar winning roles in Butterfield 8 and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?--available on DVD.

Thus, so what if the last half of Elizabeth Taylor's life wasn't as outwardly attractive as the first half? So what if she long ago lost the chance to be immortalized in quite the same vein as Marilyn Monroe? So what if she didn't go out on top? At least she got the chance to fade away, which in my book, at least for the one doing it, beats burning out any day.