Grace Arthur - Robin Williams: a singular portrait, 1986-2002

ROBIN ON STAGE OF THE METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE DURING PUBLICITY SHOOT, NEW YORK, 1986

ebook ISBN 9781619028029

Copyright 2016 Arthur Grace

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Design by Debbie Berne

Photo Editor: James Gilbert

COUNTERPOINT

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www.counterpointpress.com

Distributed by Publishers Group West

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Zak, Zelda, and Cody Williams

who were always the heart of Robins life

AT HOME, SAN FRANCISCO, 1995

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

The first time I ever heard the name Robin Williams was in September 1978 while I was on assignment for Time magazine in Thurmont, Maryland covering the historic peace meetings at Camp David with President Carter, Israeli Premier Menachem Begin, and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat.

During the endless waiting around for a photo op, one of the photographers started talking about this crazy guy, Robin Williams, who was in a new TV show called Mork and Mindy. He kept raving about how funny this character Mork was and how he did this nanu-nanu thing and kept saying the most off-the-wall stuff. Another photographer quickly seconded the motion, telling everyone that it was the funniest program he had ever watched. Being a huge fan of comedy who had enjoyed a brief moment doing stand-up during my formative years (that would be the hazy days of the late 60s), I made sure I was in front of my television the next week to catch the show. It had me laughing almost the entire time and I became a major Robin Williams fan. I had never seen anyone like him before and had never laughed so hard in my life.

Eight years later, in 1986, I found myself standing at the curb of the US Airways passenger pickup area at the Pittsburgh Airport waiting to meet Robin Williams. Newsweek had sent me on assignment to shoot photographs for a cover story by their film critic, David Ansen, titled Funny Man: The Comic Genius of Robin Williams. I didnt know it at the time, but Robins brilliant performance co-hosting the Oscars that year was the catalyst for the story.

Right on time, the car I was looking for pulled up to the curb, and there, sitting on the passenger side riding shotgun, was a smiling Robin Williams. I threw my bags into the empty trunk of the rental car and hopped into the backseat. Both Robin and David Steinberg, his manager, quickly turned around to shake hands and say hello. As we pulled away into the traffic, it seemed completely surreal that I was now on tour with Robin Williams.

A few moments later, David glanced at Robin and asked if he had heard that a certain show-biz acquaintance of theirs had died the day before. Robin looked straight ahead and said in a deadpan tone, Ahhh death... natures way of saying, check please! I immediately burst out laughing, as much by his delivery as by the joke itself. Robin turned around and smiled, apparently pleased that he had me laughing. A while later, I said something completely inane about Ronald Reagan and Robin let out that staccato, protracted laugh which I soon learned is what he always did when he found something really funny. I figured we were off to a good start, but I knew better than to push my luck on the comedic front. I kept hearing in my head the standard admonition from countless TV shows and ads before something dangerous was about to be shown: Dont try this at home, folks.

As we drove toward the hotel on that day thirty years ago, I never could have guessed that it was the beginning of a ride that would span three decades and become the most extraordinary trip of my life. Looking back, it was one of those rare times when a chance meeting unexpectedly grows into a real friendship. Robin and I simply hit it off from the start and everything progressed from there. We were always comfortable in each others company, and even when months would go by without us seeing each other, the minute we met up again, we picked up right where we had left off.

I was never one of Robins closest friends like Billy Crystal, Bobcat Goldthwait, or Eric Idle. However, over the years, when not laughing about something or other, Robin and I did manage to get in quite a few serious, in-depth conversations about his business and my business, family, politics, friends, and the state of the world. To be sure, if Robin and Marsha hadnt respected my work and trusted me as a friend, this book would never exist. I will always be grateful to them for letting me hitch a ride on Robins fascinating, roller-coaster life and, most importantly, for giving me the opportunity to photograph it without restriction.

Im not a reporter in the conventional sense. As a photojournalist, I am a self-proclaimed trained professional observer. What I have written about in this book comes from personal observations and shared experiences with Robin.

Anyone who knew Robin will tell you that the first question someone would usually ask if they found out you were Robins friend was something like: Is he on all the time? or Is he always that wound up (crazy, manic, etc.)? The answer, of course, is a definite no, as the photographs in these pages make clear.

Robin was like anybody else who works hard at what they do. He needed time for rest, relaxation, and recuperation. The only difference was that he needed it more than most. The amount of energy he expended performing was often otherworldly, as anyone could attest after watching his HBO specials or attending his stand-up shows or comedy club surprise appearances (or even having a long dinner with him).

On stage there was always a small table with a stack of white hand towels and rows of bottled water to keep Robin semi-dry and hydrated. After he finished a live performance, he would come offstage totally drenched, his shirt clinging to his skin. He would immediately grab a towel and started drying himself as he drank bottled water and headed straight for his dressing room. The first thing he did when he walked in was to deposit his soaked shirt into a plastic bag held open for him by his longtime personal assistant Rebecca Erwin Spencer. The shirt would later be sent out to the dry cleaner (but not before Rebecca tossed it in the shower).

For Robins downtime, he had private spaces in his home in San Francisco and at his ranch in Napa where he could completely withdraw from everything and everyone. In San Francisco his retreat was a hidden room behind a movable bookcase, while in Napa, it was a separate watchtower with its own staircase. Inside were computers, monster models, Star Wars spaceships, rows and rows of toy soldiers, and stacks of video games. There was also invariably a pile of scripts.