So Robin Williams died...

Looks like it's a suicide—not many other explanations for death asphyxiation, though nothing's officially confirmed at this point.

Many people have been saddened by his death, which makes sense, really. The guy had unworldly talent, and was an inspiration to millions of people during his life as a performer, primarily his roles in film. And there's no denying he was one of the finest actors on the planet: I doubt anyone could find a role he couldn't become. There aren't many actors who can pull off comedic and dramatic roles to the level he could. He made you laugh in Aladdin, then creeped you right the fuck out in One Hour Photo. Motherfucker got a full scholarship for the Juilliard School for a reason.

But, given my background, and my experiences of Williams, I'll always remember him as a comedian. And it was only after reflection today that I realised how much I've got to thank him for.

I was in a lecture, and we had a five minute break, so I headed onto Facebook to chat with a friend. And there it was, up in the corner, first headline: 'Actor Robin Williams dies at 63'. "...the fuck?", I thought? "He's dead? Wow. That certainly came out of nowhere." Initially, I was more surprised than anything. I don't think anyone saw it coming, at least not this suddenly. He did have problems with substance abuse, and he did suffer from depression and bipolar disorder, so with that taken into account, it's far less of a surprise. But still, I wasn't expecting to see that.


My friend asked if I'd heard the news, and I said I had. I briefly mentioned his influence on me, and my friend said "I'm sorry" and offered a hug (a digital one :P). She must have thought I was saddened because I'd lost an idol; and while that makes perfect sense, I didn't really feel sad, nor do I currently. I felt disappointed that I'd never get to see him live, to meet him and thank him for the inspiration he's given me as a comedian, but I didn't feel sad that I'd lost him. As the day's gone on, I've actually felt really glad.

I'm not glad he's dead (needless to say, that would be awful). I'm glad because I've realised how lucky I am to have experienced his works, because they've changed the course of my life for the better.

Without Robin Williams, I would never even have thought of doing comedy at all. Were it not for his comedy, whatever I'd be right now, it wouldn't be a comedian in any sense of the word. Not only would my hobbies and career interests be different, but my personality would be different. My identity would be different. And only today, only after recollection and reflection, have I realised the full extent of this man's influence on me.



First off, I almost certainly wouldn't have gotten into stand-up, at least not as quickly and thoroughly as I have done over the past six years. I remember going to my local DVD shop once, and seeing a DVD in the comedy section that stood out. The cover featured Robin Williams' face, along with a few poses, with the title Live on Broadway near the top. I had no clue what it was, but I was curious as all fuck. Why was it just him, all by himself? And Broadway—was it a musical or something? I didn't even read the back; I just grabbed it. I knew I loved Williams' in his films, so this would probably be good too, right?

When I got home and popped it in, I was proven right. I was proven the most right I ever had been, and probably ever will be. It was fucking insane. There he was, on stage, by himself, doing stand-up, for ninety minutes straight, never stopping, never pausing, just going and going and going. It was the hardest I'd laughed in a long time. It was just this stream of consciousness, full of zany characters, spot-on impersonations, political humour, and fuck jokes. It was incredible. I didn't even know you could do stand-up for any longer than five minutes, because I'd only ever seen stand-up performed on TV in five-minute chunks, through things like the Just for Laughs gala in Montreal, and the Melbourne International Comedy Festival (which I was hardly even familiar with at the time). That was my first ever HBO comedy special, many of which I've watched since then, including all three of Williams' other specials.

At the time, I had a crush on this girl at my high school, and I couldn't muster the courage to talk to her. But I thought about Williams' comedy special, and went "hey... maybe, if I do a performance like that, I can tell that girl I like her without having to talk to her in person!" I didn't immediately start writing, but that plan never left the back of my mind; I even solved the problem of getting her into the audience (by having her 'win' a ticket in a rigged raffle or something). Eventually, probably around eighteen months later, I decided to start writing. Not long after I began making notes, I ended up asking the girl out in person anyway, but that didn't stop me from writing—in fact, I ended up writing about both how I liked the girl and how I asked her out, seeing as I'd now actually done it. My initial motivation remained so, just in a different way. The eventuating script, which I still have, very much in Williams' style (seeing as he was the only comic influence I had at the time): it's full of voices and characters, with lots of movement and rapid-fire delivery. And however silly that plan might have been to actually carry out (it would've been rather embarrassing to be called out in a crowd and asked on a date, especially at that age :P), that was the beginning of my adventures in comedy.

I've always thought that the girl herself, through her mere existence, her mere charm, was very responsible for my start in comedy. And that's true, no doubt—without her to be attracted to, I wouldn't have had the push to start writing, at least not as soon as I did. But really, Williams was the one who provided the initial spark. Williams was my doorway into the world of comedy; the girl (or at least my infatuation with her) was what gave me the urge to actually step through that door. And when I did, I never wanted to leave.

It's as if Williams himself was an actual door, opening up to my fourteen-year-old self, his hairy arm extending from the handle inviting me in, his voice telling me I could come in whenever I wanted. And it took a while, but I eventually took his advice. Without those first steps, I'd have never discovered Mitch Hedberg and become fascinated with wordplay. I'd have never discovered George Carlin and (rediscovered) Bill Hicks, having my mind expanded and my critical faculties refined. I'd have never discovered Jim Jefferies and Steve Hughes, performers I've gone to actually see live (and meet personally, in Jefferies' case). And I'd never have started writing jokes poking fun at my school, my government, my culture, and myself, much less gotten on stage to perform said jokes for hundreds of strangers. I can't imagine who I'd be or where I'd be if not for those experiences.



Incidentally, Williams was also responsible for my introduction to improv, via his appearance on Whose Line is it Anyway? Not long after I started writing stand-up, I must have been searching for videos of Williams on YouTube, where I saw this video of him on a TV set of some kind. I hadn't seen the video before, and the thumbnail didn't really give much of a clue as to what the video was about. But, just as with the DVD, it's Robin Williams—I've no reason to expect anything but greatness.

And again, I got more than what I expected. There he was, in a Hollywood Director scene, pretending to be an Italian cook in a kitchen full of rats, who then had to do the same scene as a hillbilly chef, followed by a seductive chef. Not only was Williams quick on his feet and witty as fuck, but so were those performing alongside him: Ryan Stiles, Colin Mochrie, and Wayne Brady, three performers I've now watched for what must be weeks' worth of real time on YouTube, as well as seeing Colin with fellow Whose Line performer Brad Sherwood perform their two-man show last year. And just like with the stand-up, I want to do improv, though I have considerably less improv experience than stand-up experience. While Williams was only on the show for one episode, it only took one episode to get me hooked, and his refined improv skill juxtaposed with his creative insanity was the best teaser one could hope for from the Whose Line universe.



And most importantly, were it not for these introductions to comedy via Williams' work, I'd never actually become funny. Not that I'm objectively funny or anything, but 'funny' is my mindset. Comedy is a permanent filter in my head; it's always there and it's always processing what I sense in the world. When I converse with people, it's just my nature to react with jokes. It's not even conscious; I just do it. That's the kind of thing that takes years to develop, and while I obviously have a whole range of people to thank for that development, many of which I've listed here (not to mention the family, friends, and staff at my old high school), Williams was the one who opened that door—the one who was that door—to this amazing world I'm now a part of.



I guess it's strange how I can feel so happy given how tragic this loss is. And it is tragic, extremely so; a lot of people have lost an idol today, not just me, and we (likely) lost him due to suicide, no less. But only today have I realised how much I have to thank the guy for, even if those thanks are only ephemeral. I didn't even remember how much I used to love watching Flubber and Mrs. Doubtfire as a kid until today—a trip down memory lane if there ever was one.

And while it's cheesy as fuck, his memory will live on. The man inspired an unfathomable amount of budding actors, comedians—and all kinds of people—with his humour, his imagination, and his compassion. And that's why I'm glad: not because he's gone, but because of what he gave the world before he left.






You're not perfect, sport, and let me save you the suspense: this girl you've met, she's not perfect either. But the question is whether or not you're perfect for each other.