Robin Williams and our rainbow suspenders connection

SINGAPORE — I remember the first time I watched an episode of Mork & Mindy on television. I was but a wee ‘un and it was an old re-run but I remember very clearly how I wanted — no, needed — a pair of rainbow suspenders. And, more importantly, a friend like Mork.

He didn’t know it, but Robin Williams brought so much joy, laughter and hope to a little Singaporean girl, who grew up to be lifelong fan of films and the legend himself.

Whether he was the hilarious aforementioned alien Mork, the zany Genie in Aladdin, the inspiring John Keating in Dead Poets Society or the introspective Sean Maguire in Good Will Hunting, Williams’ inimitable combination of comedic genius, side-splitting quips and accents, and heartfelt dramatic prowess spoke to me.

He made it universally okay to be the silly oddball, to unabashedly always choose mirth and merriment, to laugh at and embrace our very human foibles and to explore our deeper and darker side. His films, whether terrific or terrible, implicitly impacted me in ways I was never immediately aware of, consequently shaping this movie fan’s predilections.

Growing up, Robin Williams meant a lot to me as, I daresay, he did to many others around the world. Which is why, as a friend pointed out, it’s a colossal shame that he kept none of this joy for himself.

Williams, beloved actor, comedian and Oscar winner, passed away on Monday at the age of 63 in a suspected suicide. He had been, according to his publicist, “battling severe depression of late.”

Indeed, the multi-award winner had publicly fought the double demons of addiction and depression throughout his career. But for most parts, he seemed to tackle his struggles the way only Williams could — finding some method in the madness and facing down his darkness, addictions and impulses with full blown authenticity and droll self-awareness (with the odd relapse). According to reports, he had entered a rehab facility earlier this year to “fine-tune and focus on his continued commitment” to sobriety. All this information, though, makes the news of his death, and the indication that he took his own life, no less shocking.

I have never been so saddened and deeply upset over the death of someone whom I’ve never met in person. But that is the virtuosity and luminosity of Williams. You’ll always be in awe of his prodigious gifts, maniacal energy, incredible mind, flawless comic timing, and astounding genius. It’s the painful irony of life that even being a significant presence in the lives of so many — friends, family and fans — isn’t an impenetrable defence against depression.

Similar to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s heroin overdose earlier this year, the death of yet another one of my all-time favourite actors is a reminder that sometimes brilliance and despair often flow from the same tap. That maybe the most extraordinary people have dark sides that help fuel their gift. But it is also true that many well-adjusted people who are equally talented and successful have excelled despite their demons.

As I have written before, I am in no position to argue either sides of the coin but I do know that being haunted by and dealing with your personal demons, no matter how talented, creative or successful you are, is the hardest thing human beings have ever had to cope with. And I think that no one person has the right to comment on the morality or worthiness of another person.

As one of the many tributes stated: “There will be much celebration, in the coming weeks and months, of Robin Williams’ life and career. But perhaps the best tribute to him would be if we all reached out to the troubled people in our lives and let them know that we are here for them. Because Robin Williams was there for us.”

And this former little Singaporean girl, who once desperately wanted a pair of rainbow suspenders and a friend like Mork, couldn’t have put it any better.