I thought Gareth Edwards‘ Godzilla (6.16.14) was half-tolerable if you ignored the ending. Edwards was going to direct the forthcoming Godzilla, King of the Monsters (5.31.19), but then he bailed, presumably because he wasn’t happy with some aspect of the development. I can smell trouble from this trailer. Just knowing it’s been directed and co-written by Michael Dougherty (Trick r Treat, Krampus) is warning enough.
“The new story follows the heroic efforts of the crypto-zoological agency Monarch as its members face off against a battery of god-sized monsters, including the mighty Godzilla, who collides with Mothra, Rodan and the three-headed King Ghidorah. When these ancient super-species — thought to be mere myths – rise again, they all vie for supremacy, leaving humanity’s very existence hanging in the balance.” — Warner Bros. and Legendary synopsis.
Yes, it’s a bit of a gloss, but a highly arresting one. Efficient burnishing. And it doesn’t really invite anyone into Williams’ mind. At best it offers little flashes of what he felt or sensed during this or that chapter, but it’s mainly a talking-head tour. We knew and loved Robin, he was such a tender soul, he loved being “on” but yeah, those rough times, etc.
This is one fascinating, often hilarious, touching but finally depressing study of a whirling dervish and comic firecracker who flew high and fast for a 25-year period, give or take, and then embarked on an up-and-down journey of his own realm, some of it thrilling or marginally satisfying or unpleasant, portions lessened by addiction and toward the end quite ghastly (severe depression, Lewy body dementia). The poor guy was unlucky, and disease took him down.
Everyone loved and cherished Williams, but no one likes to think too long or hard about what he started to experience when he passed the big five-oh (in the early aughts), and particularly the big six-oh. The sad truth is that he had a glorious run from the mid ’70s (pre-Mork & Mindy stand-up) to the early aughts (his psycho nutter in Chris Nolan‘s Insomnia was his last truly decent role), but after that it was rough sledding.
The doc reminds that when you’re hot you’re hot, and when you’re not you’re not. Old age and deterioration and slowing down are no picnic and worse if you’ve drawn bad genetic cards, so enjoy your youth and health while you can because they won’t last, baby.
Williams nearly sank his film career with sentimental overkill in the mid to late ’90s. Starting with Francis Coppola‘s Jack in ’96, he performed in a series of tender, teary-eyed films — What Dreams May Come, Patch Adams, Bicentennial Man — that made some want to barf and others to reach for the nearest fire extinguisher.
Then Williams did a abrupt 180 into dark parts — One-Hour Photo, Death to Smoochy, Insomnia, The Night Listener. Then came a brief blessed period in ’05 and ’06 — a funny bit in The Aristocrats and then a starring role in Barry Levinson‘s Man of the Year (’06), which wasn’t miraculous but seemed to some like Williams best part (and performance) since Good Will Hunting.
But right after this Williams shifted over to broad, rube-level comedy with RV, Night at the Museum and License to Wed.
The poor guy had been wrestling with depression, probably in part because his heyday was clearly over and he was on a kind of career downswing. And then came the Lewy body dementia. Life can feel so awful and cruel at times when the heat leaves the room and the candle starts to flicker. The weight can be crushing. Especially for a guy who seemed to burn a lot more brightly than most of us, certainly in the late ’70s, ’80s and ’90s.
I have flaws and issues. I am far from perfect. But at the very least I will never be accused of wearing the universal “bruh uniform” that each and every male from the age of 5 to 85 wears during warm weather.
This consists of (a) a loose-fitting, low-thread-count T-shirt (or Lacoste polo shirt or short-sleeve shirt with crazy-sick patterns), (b) preppy, knee-length cargo shorts (Ralph Lauren, Urban Outfitters, Patagonia), (c) unstructured baseball cap, knit cap or lightweight pork-pie hat and (d) sockless sandals, slip-ons, huaraches, white athletic sneakers or Crocs.
The exact same outfit. No variations or enhancements of any kind. The U.S. Army salivates over this level of sartorial regimentation. A worldwide submission to a casual-dress style that any non-invested observer would describe as absolutely totalitarian and Orwellian. Bipeds following orders, walking in step, singing the same song.
I’m not alone in this view. An eastern-seaboard film critic friend who recently moved to Los Angeles wrote the following last week: “I still cannot believe the way grown men dress in this town.” HE reply: “I guess I’m used to it. My initial thought was that you’re mostly talking about young GenXers, Millennials and GenZ, but now that I’ve thought it over, yeah…pretty much every male on the planet of whatever age wears this exact same outfit.” Critic friend: “They dress like they’re eight years old.”
Well, yeah, but to play devil’s advocate, I sorta get it. The bruh uniform is comfortable so why not? It’s not what you wear that counts, but who you are inside, etc. And who are you, by the way, to tell us what we should or shouldn’t wear, asshole?
Answer: I’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t wear your bruh outfit, but does the fact that tens or even hundreds of millions are wearing the same identical threads and the exact same type of footwear and headgear…does that bother you in the slightest?
Does it ever occur to you to occasionally not dress like an obedient little factory drone? Does the fact that there used to be many different approaches to warm-weather dress before the brah uniform took hold…does that bother you in the slightest? The fact that individual style used to be an actual thing?
