The dead poet’s deader society
View(s):He was a funny enough sitcom actor to start off with. As a wacky alien from a weird culture, his 70-80s show with the long-forgotten Pam Dawber was a family favourite for then-TV-starved local audiences. The man grew up with the teens who, sure enough, got a laugh 
or a giggle from Mork & Mindy. When he morphed into Mrs. Doubtfire, not a few baby-boomers here and abroad nodded sagely at the breakdown of family values and the heartache of divorced parents who yearn for their children’s love.
As the years rolled by, his roles grew darker and more mordant, while still retaining a flavour of the humorous or comedic. One could almost trace the comic genius’ spiralling trajectory from shooting star to earthbound meteorite. One can do that better in hindsight. Now that the strange fire of his passion has burned and fizzled out in a shower of sparks, it is all too easy – and redundant – to predict (if that is the right retrospective) his downfall and attraction to the unforgiving gravity of fame of those with dark secrets.
Who would have thought that the teacher with both logos and ethos in the poignant Dead Poets’ Society was himself to be a victim of death by hanging one day? What demons would viewers have suspected the professor with pathos in Good Will Hunting to possess and be possessed by? Would children to whom he brought smiles of delight have been deceived by the deep vein of sadness that ran in Patch Adams’ blood?
Well, apparently, Hollywood knew – for all that Hollywood cared. The man was battling many ghouls who would feast on the very flesh that feeds the daemon of their genius. Depression was the black dog which was his constant companion. Alcohol was another relatively secret addiction. The watching world might well have suspected that his name was Legion in the aftermath of such films noirs as The Birdcage, The World According To Garp, and One Hour Photo. Even in the lighter oeuvres, the laughter always bordered on the hysterical. Jumanji was hilarious, RV was a riot, Good Morning Vietnam was explosively funny, Hook was a hoot… but the straw man, the hollow man inside, peered out from within in the more “deep and meaningful” (artistic jargon for ‘therapeutic’ and ‘self-indulgent’) The Fisher King, Bicentennial Man, Man Of The Year, The Night Listener, What Dreams May Come, Jakob the Liar and Final Cut.
At 63, Robin Williams was old for an actor and a comedian and young for a dead man in what is, paradoxically enough, simultaneously the fittest economy and the sickest society to live (and die) in. A particularly sickening aspect is the morbid emergence of amateur psychologists among the dead poet’s friends and family, who are now crawling out of the woodwork to essay their best guesses as to why the man hanged himself with his belt… a heart’s cry away from his sleeping wife. That, and the plaudits and encomia which are pouring in from fellow actors and possibly unwillingly-flattering imitators in the Plummeting Career Dept. who are greedy for their ghoulish fifteen minutes of fame. But perhaps we quibble too much… we who enjoyed his work and benefited in our soul thru the damage done to his psyche over the years in torturing himself to bring his fans and followers alike a smidgen of joy.
Robin Williams and above as Mrs. Doubtfire. AFP
Au contraire, maybe it is in all our interests that we quibble a little. Or, if we care enough, a lot! How many other actors, artists, authors, auteurs, autistic folks, idiot savants, et al. must we be adoringly following to their death and destruction? Have we any idea what it must be taking comic geniuses like Jim Carrey (I mention just the one who comes most immediately to mind) to bottle it all up and keep the angst tightly locked away while they spin their charm and work their magic on their delighted audiences? Or do we realise, or care, or care enough, that charismatic stars such as Anthony Hopkins (I name him only as a sort of a liver felt tribute) go through emotional hell while fighting addictions and staying on the wagon – or routinely and systematically falling off it – to turn in their most stellar performances?
Never mind the celluloid or silver screen, or the spotlighted stage, or entertainment medium. What about our own family and friends who smile bravely through their bipolar disorders and plethora of mental syndromes or personality disorders, and put on a brave front to spare us their – and our own – pain? How many colleagues, associates, acquaintances must we have greeted and passed by with a cheery hallo! hello! hullo! or a customary clichéd greeting, while their ships (passing by day as by night) sailed off the edge of the world into eternal darkness of the unlit mind and eventual nothingness? Is it only a certain type of long-ailing western society that is sick at the core… or is the cancer of apathy, anomie, and ennui eating into the cellular structures of our own culture and civilisation?
Is it just yours that is a sad, mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know face that you shave or rouge or powder every morning – or is all the world struggling with some secret sorrow we should make it our bounden duty to know… and address, and engage with… and also love… and try to save…
Let us – as we mourn and gasp at the coming of strange and fanciful dreams to our acerbic comic genius – end this reflection with an exhortation from another great dead poet.
Let us honour if we can,
The horizontal man;
Though we value none,
But the horizontal one.
“Nano! Nano!” Mr Williams. Goodbye, dark-breasted Robin; and thanks for all the weird, wacky, and wonderful stuff over the years. May what dreams as come be sweet music to your tender soul.