Robin by Dave Itzkoff

This wasn’t the best book choice, but the damage is done. Robin, by Dave Itzkoff, isn’t a bad book, per se. The problem is inherent in the impossibility of this story offering redemption. There is nothing funny, or even really that fun, about a comedian who commits suicide.

One moment in the book which sparked my delight was the description of an incident outlining the critical divide between the San Francisco and New York City approaches to life:

During his first week in Manhattan, he was riding a public bus, when, a few rows ahead of him,

he saw a man slump over onto the woman he was sitting next to. “Get off me!” she shouted

as she changed seats. But the man was dead. The driver stopped the bus and told everyone

to exit the vehicle. Robin, still the altruistic transplant from the West Coast, said he wanted

to stay and help out, but the bus driver replied: “He’s dead, motherfucker, now get off!

You can’t do shit for him, so take your raggedy California ass and get out of my bus!”

If something on par with this encounter did not happen to you within a month of arriving in NYC, you are either not really a true NorCal hippie, or you perhaps missed the mark and actually ended up in Connecticut, where people have more tact. My first visit to Manhattan came in the hissing warning from our host to myself and a friend from Maine to watch ourselves because, “that granola shit doesn’t fly out here.” Par for the course, it seems.

My mental list of books to read now includes a biography of Robin Williams written closer to his peak, well before his demise.  Aging challenges everyone, but Williams tread a harder course than most. As the twenty-first century marched on, times changed, and the essential benefits of being a race-baiting, cocaine-snorting, nanny-fucking juggernaut just aren’t the same.

No matter how much Itzkoff wants to gloss over the matter, it can no longer be considered cute for a straight man to parody a gay man simply because he lived in San Francisco, or a born Christian to perform “crackly, phlegm-filled Yiddish words, instantly hilarious in their enunciation” because he had Jewish friends in high school. Itzkoff’s vein of evasiveness on difficult matters is on display when he write, “Zak, now ten years old, who visited on days when his dad had custody.” While it is good to know Robin never kidnapped Zak, this declaration is otherwise useless in establishing the extent of his co-parenting.

Despite some notable dodges of this nature, the author overall offers an even-handedly portrayal of his subject. The surprising hero of the narrative is Robin’s second ex-wife, Marsha Williams. Marsha, Marsha, Marsha! Much of the success Robin achieved during his Mrs. Doubtfire period is attributed to her efforts and guidance.  Poorly received movies, however, are accredited solely to Mr. Williams judgement. The credit for their marriage’s collapse goes to Robin’s relapse. Further, Itzkoff assiduously tows the company line that in no way, shape, or form was the relationship of a married Robin Williams and Marsha, his son’s nanny turned personal assistant, ever inappropriate or less than fully honorable.

The other unusual attribute of this book is the conclusion. The subject of how to end the biography of a deceased subject is tricky. For some authors death is the end, full stop. Strategically this makes sense. In practice it can feel slightly lacking, which is why many authors employ a wrap-up chapter or epilogue. In no other books that I recall was this post-mortem summary 90% devoted to the intricacies of the will resolution. Spoiler – Marsha prevailed over the third Mrs. Williams to gain control of his core memorabilia collection.

Robin Williams moved people, for better and worse. But even the ranks of his skeptics, like my mother, assiduously opposed to William’s outsized and frequently facile antics, occasionally succumbed to the lure of his more toned-down, mainstream fare. Not a robust movies goer, she nonetheless dragged my sister and I to Dead Poet’s Society, attempting, I presume, to infuse us with an adolescent craving for classicism. Itzkoff hammers away about how obsessed Robin was with his work, using it as a way to tamper down creeping depression and self-doubt. For this reason, I’d recommend Robin Williams fans focus on his filmology as opposed to his biography.  The latter is varied, vibrant and hopeful, while his life story leads to an inevitably sorrowful finale for a man famous for good cheer.