What Made Robin Williams a Uniquely Expressive Actor: A Video Essay Explores a Subtle Dimension of His Comic Genius

“He had admir­ers but no imi­ta­tors,” writes Dave Itzkoff in Robin, his new biog­ra­phy of Robin Williams. “No one com­bined the pre­cise set of tal­ents he had in the same alchem­i­cal pro­por­tions.” Though Itzkof­f’s book has received a great deal of acclaim, many fans may still feel that impor­tant ele­ments of Williams’ par­tic­u­lar genius remain less than ful­ly under­stood. Schol­ars of com­e­dy will sure­ly con­tin­ue to scru­ti­nize the beloved comic’s per­sona for decades to come, just as they have over the past four years since his death. The cin­e­ma-ana­lyz­ing video essay series Every Frame a Paint­ing pro­duced one of the first such exam­i­na­tions of Williams’ tech­nique, “Robin Williams — In Motion,” and its insight still holds up today.

“Few actors could express them­selves as well through motion,” nar­ra­tor Tony Zhou says of Williams, “whether that motion was big or small. Even when he was doing the same move­ment in two dif­fer­ent scenes, you could see the sub­tle vari­a­tions he brought to the arc of the char­ac­ter.” This goes for Williams’ man­ic, impres­sion laden per­for­mances as well as his low-key, slow-burn­ing ones. “To watch his work,” Zhou says over a mon­tage of enter­tain­ing exam­ples, “is to see the sub­tle thing that an actor can do with his hands, his mouth, his right leg, and his facepalm. Robin Williams’ work is an ency­clo­pe­dia of ways that an actor can express him­self through move­ment, and he was for­tu­nate to work with film­mak­ers who used his tal­ents to their fullest.”

Those film­mak­ers includ­ed Bar­ry Levin­son (Good Morn­ing Viet­namToysMan of the Year), Peter Weir (Dead Poets Soci­ety), Ter­ry Gilliam (The Adven­tures of Baron Mun­chausenThe Fish­er King), and Gus Van Sant (Good Will Hunt­ing). Zhou cred­its them and oth­ers with let­ting Williams “play it straight through” rather than adher­ing to the more com­mon stop-start shoot­ing method that only per­mits a few sec­onds of act­ing at a time; they gave him “some­thing phys­i­cal to do,” with­out which his skill with motion could­n’t come through in the first place; they used “block­ing,” mean­ing the arrange­ment of the actors in the space of the scene, “to tell their sto­ry visu­al­ly”; they “let him lis­ten,” a lit­tle-acknowl­edged but nonethe­less impor­tant part of a per­for­mance, espe­cial­ly a Williams per­for­mance.

Final­ly, these direc­tors “did­n’t let per­fec­tion get in the way of inspi­ra­tion.” While the qual­i­ty of the indi­vid­ual works in Williams’ impres­sive­ly large fil­mog­ra­phy may vary, his per­for­mances in them are almost all unfail­ing­ly com­pelling. Even dur­ing his life­time Williams was described as a com­ic genius, and he showed us that com­ic genius­es have to take risks. And even though every risk he took might not have paid off, his body of work, tak­en as a whole, teach­es us a les­son: “Be open. This was a man who impro­vised many of his most icon­ic moments. Maybe he was on to some­thing.” Or as Williams him­self put it on an Inside the Actors Stu­dio inter­view, “When the stuff real­ly hits you, it’s usu­al­ly some­thing that hap­pened, and it hap­pened then. That’s what film is about: cap­tur­ing a moment.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Robin Williams Uses His Stand-Up Com­e­dy Genius to Deliv­er a 1983 Com­mence­ment Speech

Steve Mar­tin & Robin Williams Riff on Math, Physics, Ein­stein & Picas­so in a Heady Com­e­dy Rou­tine (2002)

Robin Williams & Bob­by McFer­rin Sing Fun Cov­er of The Bea­t­les’ “Come Togeth­er”

A Salute to Every Frame a Paint­ing: Watch All 28 Episodes of the Fine­ly-Craft­ed (and Now Con­clud­ed) Video Essay Series on Cin­e­ma

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Every Cover of MAD Magazine, from 1952 to the Present: Behold 553 Covers from the Satirical Publication

For 65 years and count­ing, the pages of Mad mag­a­zine have enter­tained read­ers by sat­i­riz­ing all the cul­tur­al items, social fads, news items, and polit­i­cal issues of the moment. Through­out that span of time the cov­ers of Mad mag­a­zine have done the same, except that they’ve enter­tained every­one, even those who’ve nev­er opened an issue, whether they want it or not. Though on one lev­el designed pure­ly as dis­pos­able visu­al gags, Mad’s cov­ers col­lec­tive­ly pro­vide a satir­i­cal his­to­ry of Amer­i­ca, and one you can eas­i­ly browse at Doug Gil­ford’s Mad Cov­er Site, “a resource for col­lec­tors and fans of the world’s most impor­tant (ecch!) humor pub­li­ca­tion.”

Gil­ford start­ed the site back in 1997, a year that saw Mad’s cov­ers take on such phe­nom­e­na as The X‑Files, the Spice Girls, the Tam­agotchi, and Sein­feld. That last seizes the pre­sum­ably irre­sistible oppor­tu­ni­ty to draw Jer­ry Sein­feld scowl­ing in irri­ta­tion at “Neu­man” — not his neme­sis-neigh­bor New­man, but Mad’s mas­cot Alfred E. Neu­man, who appears in one form or anoth­er on almost all of the mag­a­zine’s cov­ers.

These sort of antics had already been going on for quite some time, as evi­denced, for instance, by the June 1973 cov­er above in which Neu­man dons a Droog out­fit to take the place of Mal­colm McDow­ell in A Clock­work Orange — or, in Mad’s, view, A Crock­work Lemon.

To see the archive’s cov­ers in a large for­mat, you need only scroll to the desired year, click on the issue num­ber, and then click on the image that appears. (Alter­na­tive­ly, those with advanced Mad knowl­edge can sim­ply pick an issue num­ber from the pull-down “Select-a-Mad” menu at the top of the page.) Gil­ford keeps the site updat­ed with cov­ers right up to the lat­est issue: num­ber three, as of this writ­ing, since the mag­a­zine “reboot­ed” this past June as it relo­cat­ed its offices from New York to Cal­i­for­nia. Recent tar­gets have includ­ed Don­ald TrumpDon­ald TrumpDon­ald Trump, and, of course, Don­ald TrumpMad’s longevi­ty may be sur­pris­ing, but it cer­tain­ly does­n’t look like Amer­i­ca will stop pro­vid­ing the ridicu­lous­ness on which it has always sur­vived any time soon.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Gallery of Mad Magazine’s Rol­lick­ing Fake Adver­tise­ments from the 1960s

Al Jaf­fee, the Longest Work­ing Car­toon­ist in His­to­ry, Shows How He Invent­ed the Icon­ic “Folds-Ins” for Mad Mag­a­zine

Mad Magazine’s Al Jaf­fee & Oth­er Car­toon­ists Cre­ate Ani­ma­tions to End Dis­tract­ed Dri­ving

Enter “The Mag­a­zine Rack,” the Inter­net Archive’s Col­lec­tion of 34,000 Dig­i­tized Mag­a­zines

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

What It Would Look Like If Wes Anderson, Quentin Tarantino & Other Directors Filmed Cooking Videos

I usu­al­ly chafe when direc­tor Wes Ander­son is labelled “twee,” but as an enthu­si­as­tic, sticky-fin­gered gob­bler of bark and ash encrust­ed camp­fire s’mores, I did enjoy a rather row­dy laugh at his expense while watch­ing the above video.

Each entry in film­mak­er David Ma’s #Food­Films series starts with a hypoth­e­sis that pairs a sim­ple, famil­iar dish with a direc­tor whose visu­al style is well estab­lished.

What if Wes Ander­son made S’mores? 

Ma’s ear­ly mar­i­na­tion in the realms of food styling and adver­tis­ing is a recipe for suc­cess here.

Anderson’s beloved God shot has become a sta­ple of online cook­ing videos, but Ma’s atten­tion to sub­tler details would pass muster with a Cor­don Bleu chef.

The for­mal­ly engraved card! The rib­bon motif! The cos­tumes!

The look is more Grand Budapest Hotel than the camp-themed Moon­rise King­dom, but no mat­ter. That more obvi­ous pair­ing start­ed tast­ing a tad over-chewed around the time of the Moon­rise King­dom-inspired wed­ding pho­to shoot.

Ma’s homage to Quentin Taran­ti­no is a butch and bloody take on spaghet­ti and meat­balls.

To para­phrase Jean-Luc Godard, “It’s not blood. It’s red sauce.

The sound­track sug­gests that Ma’s ear is just as keen as his eye.

45 sec­onds in, there’s a Part 2, as an extra treat for QT fans.

Big bud­get action king Michael Bay and a Grav­i­ty-cen­tric Alfon­so Cuarón round out #Food­Films’ four-course tast­ing menu.

How­ev­er sat­is­fied view­ers may feel with these hijinks, their appetite for the project is far from sati­at­ed. Sequel requests are pil­ing up:

What if Kubrick made Toast?

What if Tim Bur­ton made a grilled cheese sand­wich?

What if Woody Allen made piz­za?

What if Steven Spiel­berg made cup­cakes?

What if Kuro­sawa made scram­bled eggs?

What if Guy Ritchie did a Full Eng­lish Fry-Up?

Gives me a han­ker­ing to see what Sofia Cop­po­la would do with my grandmother’s favorite lay­ered Jell‑o sal­ad.

While we’re wait­ing for Ma to serve up his next dish we can tide our­selves over with some of his oth­er high­ly styl­ized recipe videos, like the Incred­i­ble Hulk’s Smashed Pota­toes.

Read­ers, what direc­tor-dish pair­ing would you order up? Let us know in the com­ments.

via W Mag­a­zine

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pow­er of Food in Quentin Tarantino’s Films

For­rest Gump Direct­ed by Wes Ander­son: Here’s What It Would Look Like

A Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Wes Ander­son Video Essays

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Monty Python Philosophy Football Match: The Ancient Greeks Versus the Germans

Today, as the 2018 World Cup draws to a close, we’re revis­it­ing a clas­sic Mon­ty Python skit. The scene is the 1972 Munich Olympics. The event is a football/soccer match, pit­ting Ger­man philoso­phers against Greek philoso­phers. On the one side, the Ger­mans — Hegel, Niet­zsche, Kant, Marx and, um, Franz Beck­en­bauer. On the oth­er side, Archimedes, Socrates, Pla­to and the rest of the gang. The ref­er­ee? Con­fu­cius. Of course.

Note: Some years ago, this match was recre­at­ed by The Phi­los­o­phy Shop, a group ded­i­cat­ed to pro­mot­ing phi­los­o­phy among pri­ma­ry school­child­ren. The Tele­graph gives you more details.

Enjoy.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mon­ty Python’s Best Phi­los­o­phy Sketch­es

Noam Chom­sky Slams Žižek and Lacan: Emp­ty ‘Pos­tur­ing’

Free Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

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Nick Offerman Explains the Psychological Benefits of Woodworking–and How It Can Help You Achieve Zen in Other Parts of Your Life

The world may know him as an actor and come­di­an, but Nick Offer­man also loves wood­work­ing. And he does­n’t just love it in the evenings-and-week­ends, some­thing-to-do-with-my-hands-while-I-lis­ten-to-pod­casts way: he’s actu­al­ly devot­ed a seri­ous chunk of his life, per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al, to mak­ing things out of trees. As neat­ly as it may dove­tail with the musky, tra­di­tion­al­ly (and some­times buf­foon­ish­ly) mas­cu­line char­ac­ters he plays, the wood­work­ing aspect of Offer­man’s life exists inde­pen­dent­ly of his oth­er craft — not to say, of course, that you’ll find the web site of the Offer­man Wood­shop com­plete­ly devoid of humor.

Though pride in phys­i­cal work well done is its own reward, Offer­man believes that his wood­work­ing also made it pos­si­ble for him to suc­ceed as an enter­tain­er. “Peo­ple often ask me, how can I get my kid involved in show busi­ness?” he says in the Big Think clip above. “And I always say, I would advise that you take up wood­work­ing, because it’s addic­tive,” a “craft that is so sat­is­fy­ing, that doesn’t require the input of any cor­po­rate enti­ties.” This in con­trast to the Hol­ly­wood audi­tions where he always found him­self per­form­ing for “a room full of bankers” and leav­ing bewil­dered, think­ing, “ ‘I have no idea how I did,’ which gives you a lot of stress and a lot of agi­ta.”

This stress and agi­ta sent him straight to his wood­shop, where he would “just start sand­ing a wal­nut table.” Before long, “I would see the tan­gi­ble result of this work that I had done. The thing is, there’s no way to describe the sen­sa­tion. There’s mag­ic in it, whether you’re work­ing with glass or met­als or food or knit­ting or wood.” He cred­its that pow­er­ful and empow­er­ing sen­sa­tion, which he describes, in a per­haps unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly Cal­i­forn­ian man­ner, as hav­ing “an incred­i­ble med­i­ta­tive or Zen qual­i­ty,” with giv­ing him “a mel­low demeanor to the point that I no longer cared as much about the TV shows.” And by car­ing less, he found that he could han­dle all of the per­for­mances show busi­ness demand­ed of him that much bet­ter.

You can get a tour of Offer­man’s Los Ange­les wood­shop in the sec­ond video from the top, a clip from This Old House. Begin­ning with his impres­sive wood stock, it con­tin­ues on to his even more for­mi­da­ble set of inde­struc­tible-look­ing vin­tage tools. “The less elec­tric­i­ty you can use,” he tells the host, “the more plea­sur­able your wood­work­ing will be.” He shares more wood­work­ing advice in the video just above, answer­ing ques­tions from the would-be wood­work­ers of Twit­ter: Is an apron real­ly nec­es­sary? Yes. Does oak require a pre-stain con­di­tion­er? Don’t stain oak at all. When one fel­low request­ing help iden­ti­fy­ing a joint type address­es Offer­man as “Mas­ter Crafter Wood,” Offer­man cor­rects him: “I’m a stu­dent of the form, but I appre­ci­ate your opti­mism.” That sums up what wood­work­ing offers: a con­di­tion of eter­nal stu­dent­hood, and if not opti­mism then at least a help­ful equa­nim­i­ty. “Zen” may be the right word after all.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mes­mer­iz­ing GIFs Illus­trate the Art of Tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese Wood Join­ery — All Done With­out Screws, Nails, or Glue

Watch Japan­ese Wood­work­ing Mas­ters Cre­ate Ele­gant & Elab­o­rate Geo­met­ric Pat­terns with Wood

Watch the Mak­ing of a Hand-Craft­ed Vio­lin, from Start to Fin­ish, in a Beau­ti­ful­ly-Shot Doc­u­men­tary

Watch “The Woodswim­mer,” a Stop Motion Film Made Entire­ly with Wood, and “Bru­tal­ly Tedious” Tech­niques

Just 45 Straight Min­utes of Nick Offer­man Qui­et­ly Drink­ing Sin­gle Malt Scotch by the Fire

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Rise and Fall of The Simpsons: An In-Depth Video Essay Explores What Made the Show Great, and When It All Came to an End

As an Amer­i­can man in his thir­ties, I can, if nec­es­sary, com­mu­ni­cate entire­ly in Simp­sons ref­er­ences. But how­ev­er volu­mi­nous and close at hand my knowl­edge of the Simp­son fam­i­ly and their home­town of Spring­field, it does­n’t extend past the 1990s. Most of my demo­graph­ic can sure­ly say the same, as can quite a few out­side it: take the Irish­man behind the Youtube chan­nel Super Eye­patch Wolf, author of the video essay “The Fall of The Simp­sons: How It Hap­pened.” We both remem­ber tun­ing in to the show’s debut on Decem­ber 14, 1989, and how it sub­se­quent­ly “trans­formed tele­vi­sion as we knew it” — and we’ve both lament­ed how, in the near­ly three decades since, “one of the best and most influ­en­tial TV shows of all time became just anoth­er sit­com.”

So how did it hap­pen? To under­stand what made The Simp­sons fall, we have to under­stand what put it at the top of the zeit­geist in the first place. Not only did the coun­ter­cul­ture still exist back in the 1990s, The Simp­sons quick­ly came to con­sti­tute its most pop­u­lar expres­sion. And as with any pow­er­ful coun­ter­cul­tur­al prod­uct, it was just as quick­ly labeled dan­ger­ous, as any­one who grew up describ­ing each week’s episode of the show to friends not allowed to watch it remem­ber. Yet its “rebel­lious satire” and all the con­se­quent vio­la­tions both sub­tle and bla­tant of the staid con­ven­tions of main­stream Amer­i­can cul­ture (espe­cial­ly in its purest man­i­fes­ta­tion, the sit­com) came unfail­ing­ly accom­pa­nied by “com­e­dy ground­ed in char­ac­ter and heart.”

The fact that The Simp­sons’ first gen­er­a­tion of writ­ers might well revise a joke twen­ty or thir­ty times — cre­at­ing the count­less moments of intri­cate­ly struc­tured, mul­ti­lay­ered ver­bal and visu­al com­e­dy we still remem­ber today — did­n’t hurt. But even if cur­rent writ­ers put in the same hours, they do it on a show that has long since lost touch with what made it great. While each of its char­ac­ters once had “a very spe­cif­ic set of con­flict­ing beliefs and moti­va­tions,” they now seem to do or say any­thing, no mat­ter how implau­si­ble or absurd, that serves the gag of the moment. Celebri­ty guest stars stopped play­ing char­ac­ters spe­cial­ly craft­ed for them but car­i­ca­tures of them­selves. Plots became bizarre. “The only thing that The Simp­sons was a par­o­dy of now,” says Super Eye­patch Wolf bring­ing us to the present day, “was The Simp­sons.”

While the show has been self-ref­er­en­tial­ly acknowl­edg­ing its own decline since about the turn of the mil­len­ni­um, that does­n’t make com­par­isons with its 1990s “gold­en age” any less dispir­it­ing. One thinks of the com­ic strip Calvin and Hobbes, anoth­er gen­er­a­tional touch­stone, whose cre­ator Bill Wat­ter­son end­ed it after just ten years: it still finds an audi­ence today in part, he says, “because I chose not to run the wheels off it.” The Simp­sons, by con­trast, now draws its low­est rat­ings ever, and it would pain those of us who grew up with it as much to see it end as it does to see it keep going. But then, “enter­tain­ment isn’t meant to last for­ev­er. Rather, it’s an exten­sion of the peo­ple and places that made it at a par­tic­u­lar moment in time.” The Simp­sons at its coun­ter­cul­tur­al best will always define that moment, no mat­ter how long it insists on run­ning beyond it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

27 Movies Ref­er­ences in The Simp­sons Put Side-by-Side with the Movie Scenes They Paid Trib­ute To

The Simp­sons Take on Ayn Rand: See the Show’s Satire of The Foun­tain­head and Objec­tivist Phi­los­o­phy

The Simp­sons Present Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” and Teach­ers Now Use It to Teach Kids the Joys of Lit­er­a­ture

The Simp­sons Pay Won­der­ful Trib­ute to the Ani­me of Hayao Miyaza­ki

Thomas Pyn­chon Edits His Lines on The Simp­sons: “Homer is my role mod­el and I can’t speak ill of him.”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Simpsons Take on Ayn Rand: See the Show’s Satire of The Fountainhead and Objectivist Philosophy

Say what you will about the tenets of Objectivism—to take a fan favorite line from a lit­tle film about bowl­ing and white Rus­sians. At least it’s an ethos. As for Ayn Rand’s attempts to real­ize her “absurd phi­los­o­phy” in fic­tion, we can say that she was rather less suc­cess­ful, in aes­thet­ic terms, than lit­er­ary philoso­phers like Albert Camus or Simone de Beau­voir. But that’s a high bar. When it comes to sales fig­ures, her nov­els are, we might say, com­pet­i­tive.

Atlas Shrugged is some­times said to be the sec­ond best-sell­ing book next to the Bible (with a sig­nif­i­cant degree of over­lap between their read­er­ships). The claim is gross­ly hyper­bol­ic. With some­where around 7 mil­lion copies sold, Rand’s most pop­u­lar nov­el falls behind oth­er cap­i­tal­ist clas­sics like Think and Grow Rich. Still, along with The Foun­tain­head and her oth­er osten­si­bly non-fic­tion­al works, Rand sold enough books to make her com­fort­able in life, even if she spent her last years on the dole.

Since her death, Rand’s books have grown in pop­u­lar­i­ty each decade, with a big spike imme­di­ate­ly after the 2008 finan­cial cri­sis. That pop­u­lar­i­ty isn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly hard to explain as an appeal to ado­les­cent self­ish­ness and grandios­i­ty, and it has made her works ripe tar­gets for satire—especially since they almost read like self-par­o­dy already. And who bet­ter to take on Rand than The Simp­sons, reli­able pop satirists of great Amer­i­can delu­sions since 1989?

The show’s take on The Foun­tain­head, above, has baby Mag­gie in the role of archi­tect Howard Roark, the book’s genius indi­vid­u­al­ist whose extra­or­di­nary tal­ent is sti­fled by a crit­ic named Ellsworth Toohey (a card­board car­i­ca­ture of British the­o­rist and politi­cian Harold Las­ki). In this ver­sion, Toohey is a vicious preschool teacher in tweed, who insists on edu­cat­ing his charges in banal­i­ty (“medi­oc­rity rules!”) and knocks down Maggie’s block cathe­dral with a snide “wel­come to the real world.”

In response to Toohey’s abuse, Mag­gie deliv­ers a pompous solil­o­quy about her own great­ness, as Rand’s heroes are wont to do. She is again sub­ject­ed to preschool repres­sion in the clip just above—this time not at the hands of a social­ist crit­ic but from the head­mistress of the Ayn Rand School for Tots. The dom­i­neer­ing dis­ci­pli­nar­i­an tells Marge her aim is to “devel­op the bot­tle with­in” and dis­suade her stu­dents from becom­ing “leech­es,” a dig at Rand’s tendency—one sad­ly par­rot­ed by her acolytes—to dehu­man­ize recip­i­ents of social ben­e­fits as par­a­sites.

Read­ers of Roald Dahl will be remind­ed of Matil­da’s Miss Trunch­bull, and the bar­racks-like day­care, its walls lined with Objec­tivist slo­gans, becomes a site for some Great Escape capers. These sly ref­er­ences hint at a deep­er critique—suggesting that the lib­er­tar­i­an phi­los­o­phy of hyper-indi­vid­u­al­ism con­tains the poten­tial for tyran­ny and ter­ror as bru­tal as that of the most dog­mat­i­cal­ly col­lec­tivist of utopi­an schemes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Christo­pher Hitchens Dis­miss­es the Cult of Ayn Rand: There’s No “Need to Have Essays Advo­cat­ing Self­ish­ness Among Human Beings; It Requires No Rein­force­ment”

Flan­nery O’Connor: Friends Don’t Let Friends Read Ayn Rand (1960)

When Ayn Rand Col­lect­ed Social Secu­ri­ty & Medicare, After Years of Oppos­ing Ben­e­fit Pro­grams

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Bill Murray Explains How He Pulled Himself Out of a Deep, Lasting Funk: He Took Hunter S. Thompson’s Advice & Listened to the Music of John Prine

Judg­ing by the out­pour­ing of affec­tion in online com­ment sec­tions, Chica­go folk musi­cian John Prine (may he rest in peace) has helped a great many of his fans through tough times with his human­ist, oft-humor­ous lyrics.

Add fun­ny man Bill Mur­ray to the list.

Tap­ing a video in sup­port of The Tree of For­give­ness, Prine’s first album of new mate­r­i­al in over a decade, Mur­ray recalled a grim peri­od in which a deep funk robbed him of all enjoy­ment. Though he care­ful­ly stip­u­lates that this “bum­mer” could not be diag­nosed as clin­i­cal depres­sion, noth­ing lift­ed his spir­its, until Gonzo jour­nal­ist Dr. Hunter S. Thomp­son—whom Mur­ray embod­ied in the 1980 film, Where the Buf­fa­lo Roam—sug­gest­ed that he turn to Prine for his sense of humor.

Mur­ray took Thompson’s advice, and gave his fel­low Illi­nois­ian’s dou­ble great­est hits album, Great Days, a lis­ten.

This could have back­fired, giv­en that Great Days con­tains some of Prine’s most melancholy—and memorable—songs, from “Hel­lo in There” and “Angel from Mont­gomery” to “Sam Stone,” vot­ed the 8th sad­dest song of all time in a Rolling Stone read­ers’ poll.

But the song that left the deep­est impres­sion on Mur­ray is a sil­ly coun­try-swing num­ber “Lin­da Goes to Mars,” in which a clue­less hus­band assumes his wife’s vacant expres­sion is proof of inter­plan­e­tary trav­el rather than dis­in­ter­est.

To hear Mur­ray tell it, as he thumbs through a copy of John Prine Beyond Words, the moment was not one of gut-bust­ing hilar­i­ty, but rather one of self-aware­ness and relief, a sig­nal that the dark clouds that had been hang­ing over him would dis­perse.

A grate­ful Murray’s admi­ra­tion runs deep. As he told The Wash­ing­ton Post, when he was award­ed the Kennedy Cen­ter Mark Twain Prize for Amer­i­can Humor, he lobbied—unsuccessfully—to get Prine flown in for the cer­e­mo­ny:

I thought it would have been a nice deal because John Prine can make you laugh like no else can make you laugh.

Dit­to Prine’s dear friend, the late, great folk musi­cian, Steve Good­man, the author of “The Veg­etable Song,” “The Lin­coln Park Pirates” (about a leg­endary Chica­go tow­ing com­pa­ny), and “Go, Cubs, Go,” which Mur­ray trilled on Sat­ur­day Night Live with play­ers Dex­ter Fowler, Antho­ny Riz­zo, and David Ross short­ly before the Cub­bies won the 2016 World Series.

I just found out yes­ter­day that Lin­da goes to Mars

Every time I sit and look at pic­tures of used cars

She’ll turn on her radio and sit down in her chair

And look at me across the room as if I was­n’t there

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I wish she would­n’t leave me here alone

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I won­der if she’d bring me some­thing home

Some­thing, some­where, some­how took my Lin­da by the hand

And secret­ly decod­ed our sacred wed­ding band

For when the moon shines down upon our hap­py hum­ble home

Her inner space gets tor­tured by some out­er space unknown

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I wish she would­n’t leave me here alone

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I won­der if she’d bring me some­thing home

Now I ain’t seen no saucers ‘cept the ones upon the shelf

And if I ever seen one I’d keep it to myself

For if there’s life out there some­where beyond this life on earth

Then Lin­da must have gone out there and got her mon­ey’s worth

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I wish she would­n’t leave me here alone

Oh, my stars, my Lin­da’s gone to Mars

Well, I won­der if she’d bring me some­thing home

Yeah, I won­der if she’d bring me some­thing home

Lis­ten to a Great Days Spo­ti­fy playlist here, though nei­ther Open Cul­ture, nor Bill Mur­ray can be held account­able if you find your­self blink­ing back tears.

Bonus: Below, watch Prine and Mur­ray “swap songs and sto­ries about the ear­ly days in Chica­go cross­ing paths with the likes of John Belushi, Steve Good­man and Kris Kristof­fer­son.” Plus more.


Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Phi­los­o­phy of Bill Mur­ray: The Intel­lec­tu­al Foun­da­tions of His Comedic Per­sona

Bill Mur­ray Reads the Poet­ry of Lawrence Fer­linghet­ti, Wal­lace Stevens, Emi­ly Dick­in­son, Bil­ly Collins, Lorine Niedeck­er, Lucille Clifton & More

Lis­ten to Bill Mur­ray Lead a Guid­ed Medi­a­tion on How It Feels to Be Bill Mur­ray

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Thurs­day June 28 for anoth­er month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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