One of the things I love about the theater is the stories that actors, directors and the rest tell about their past glories and failures. That is fortunate because if you spend more than 10 minutes with them, that’s the direction the conversation always goes.
I never met Robin Williams, but like a lot of us, I think this week is a little darker and a little sadder than it ought to be because he’s gone. How big a loss is this? I put Williams in the same league as Chaplin, Groucho and Lucille Ball.
I did know some people who knew him, though, and I heard a great story about him that I want to share. If only because it makes what happened hurt a little less.
Back when the world was young, I was editor at Lloyd’s of London Press in its New York office. The vice president who actually ran the place was named Helen Morosini, whose daughter was Dana, who happened to also be Mrs. Christopher Reeve. As you may or may not know, Chris and Robin Williams were buddies from their days at Julliard and a rather unlikely pair, I would imagine. Anyway, that’s my four degrees of separation from Mork.
When Chris had his horseback riding accident in 1995, it was a grim time in the Morosini household, as you can well imagine. According to Helen, the accident was much worse than the press originally reported. Superman had be revived with CPR as he lay on the ground, and he almost didn’t come back — he was gone for a few moments. As we all know, he was paralyzed from then on.
For an actor, of course, being able to move around is one of the basic talents required for the job. Chris was also quite athletic; he was a pretty good hockey player in his youth. So, not being able to move struck him just like would everybody else — star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame or not.
I talked to Helen a few times after the accident, more to check on her than anything else. And it was usually a pretty awful conversation. One day, though, I caught her in an almost cheerful mood. Inquisitive sod that I am, I had to ask why.
“Oh, that Robin Williams turned up,” she said in that Boston accent she never lost. “He barged into Chris’s room unannounced with doctor’s scrubs on and one of those ridiculous blue surgical caps. In his Russian accent [which was pretty good if you ever saw ‘Moscow on the Hudson’], ‘I am your proctologist. Is time for examination.’ It was the first time Chris had laughed since the fall.”
That was the first time I heard hope in my friend Helen’s voice. There are worse epitaphs.
Jeff Myhre is a contributing journalist for TheBlot Magazine.
