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"Chill Factor"
Chemo-terrorists! Car crashes! Ice cream men! But not even Cuba Gooding Jr. can thaw out this late-summer dud.
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Quite contrary: Mary J. Blige transforms herself into the first diva with both feet on the ground.
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The Beatles live again in the eye- and ear-popping new print of "Yellow Submarine."
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[09/02/99]

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By Stephanie Zacharek
[09/01/99]

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If Mork's shenanigans were inspired, they were also the sort of thing that could become wearisome in large doses -- which is why it was a good thing that Williams tried hard to fashion himself into a real actor early in his career, particularly in movies like Paul Mazursky's wonderful 1984 "Moscow on the Hudson." Between his geyser-force comic riffing and his willingness to dig into a dramatic role, Williams seemed to possess almost unfathomable potential.

That is, until he started going to such great lengths to warm hearts everywhere, leaving a sorry trail of them, charred and numb.

What happened to Robin Williams?

The short answer, and the only really plausible one, is that he's succumbed completely to the yearning that most entertainers feel at least to some degree. As critic Robert Warshow said of Charlie Chaplin, he makes one insistent demand: "Love me." Williams has practically admitted as much himself. In a recent unauthorized biography by Andy Dougan, pieced together from interviews Williams has given over the years, the actor is quoted as saying, "I'm no great shakes. It's the 'love me' syndrome coupled with the 'fuck you' syndrome. Like the great joke about the woman who comes up to the comic after the show and says, 'God, I really love what you do. I want to fuck your brains out!' And the comic says, 'Did you see the first show or the second show?'"

The quote is so frank, so blatantly self-confessional, that it's almost too easy. But it's also funny and acidic, in the manner of the old Robin Williams, and it shows more self-awareness than we'd believe possible, considering the gooey stickiness of Williams' work of the past few years. "Love me" is a grating, stultifying demand, the kind that can lead you to become disillusioned with even a highly gifted performer. But the old Robin Williams -- particularly the coked-up stand-up comic of the '80s, so charged up that he could leave audiences feeling dizzy -- didn't seem to be begging for our love so much as demanding (and commanding) our attention. The Williams of the old days forged a bond with his audience, and it wasn't necessarily a comfortable one -- but its prickliness was part of what made him so vital.

Now, with movies like "Mrs. Doubtfire" (1993), "Patch Adams" (1998) and "What Dreams May Come" (1998) -- the first two huge box-office hits -- Williams seems to have become most interested in smothering us in a massive warm fuzzy. And the heartwarming Holocaust drama he's due to release later this month, "Jakob the Liar" -- which is based on the novel by Jurek Becker, made into a German-language film in 1974 -- suggests nothing so much as a desperate attempt to outgrin the insufferable Roberto Benigni (although Williams filmed the role before he did "Patch Adams").

The state of Williams' career may be the inevitable result of an actor's becoming successful enough to develop his own projects (he's pointed with pride to the fact that the dreadful "Mrs. Doubtfire" was "found" by his wife and colleague, Marcia Garces Williams). Who's to say that some actors aren't better off when they're chosen or pursued by a particular director, instead of having the freedom, the money and the clout to spearhead any project they choose and make themselves the centerpiece of it? Williams has complete control of his own destiny at this point. "Patch Adams" (again, executive-produced by Marcia Garces Williams) grossed some $135 million in theaters, proving that large audiences are following. Why shouldn't Williams continue merrily on his way, making big bucks as he spreads his special brand of love and happiness across the land?

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