This one hurts.
Robin Williams, who has been in many of our lives as far back as Mork and Mindy in 1978, is dead. He was found unconscious inside of his residence, and the initial conclusion from the coroner is suicide due to asphyxia (he hanged himself). He was 63.
Williams’ CBS sitcom The Crazy Ones had recently been cancelled, and in recent years, he had been battling depression and the addiction demon that haunted him for much of his earlier career. The four-time Oscar nominee, who won for his supporting role in Good Will Hunting, was working on Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb and a sequel to Mrs. Doubtifre had been announced.
Shit, guys. I don’t even know. He was a fixture in our lives. Robin Williams is the crazy uncle who wouldn’t shut up at the dinner table we always had, and though he could drive us insane by refusing to be himself, whoever that was, we still loved him. I mean, for all that shit and grief we’ve given Williams basically since Flubber, we really fucking loved the guy. He was manic, and all of his impressions were 25 years old, and his project choices were questionable, but he was one of the most talented guys to ever work in the industry, a guy that everyone seemed to adore, and a guy we’re really, really going to miss. If you don’t have a favorite Robin Williams movie, it’s only because you’ve never seen a Robin Williams movie.
And to lose him like this? Goddamnit, Robin Williams. It just doesn’t seem right to lose him to something so … mortal.
At least he’s with his best friend Christopher Reeve now, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Rest in peace, you manic bastard. You were one of the great ones.