08/15/2025
Sigh.
While this story (as are so many about Robin Williams) tells of this incredible man who could and WOULD lift everyone around him, he lacked the very person HE was in his own life. He hired the homeless on films, he supported friends in need (Christopher Reeves is another shining example). Yet when we lost him, everyone said “but he was so full of joy! He cared so much for others! How could this happen?”
Whether someone is the weakest or STRONGEST in the room, everyone needs to feel seen, heard, and understood. He did everything he could to entertain his way out of ever disclosing his own pain.
Every story about Robin Williams is a reminder to check in with your community. Notice a heavy sigh, an absence, as well as manic entertainment and “helper” syndrome.
(Thanks Sam)
During the emotionally grueling shoot of "Schindler’s List" (1993), Steven Spielberg would often end his days in a heavy silence, carrying the weight of the Holocaust’s harrowing realities portrayed on set. The black-and-white imagery, the haunting performances, and the historical responsibility left him drained and deeply affected.
That is when Robin Williams became a daily presence in his life. Almost every evening, Spielberg’s phone would ring, and on the other end, Robin’s unmistakable voice would burst forth with a barrage of jokes, silly voices, or improvised bits. These calls were never planned at a fixed hour. They came when Robin sensed Spielberg might be at his lowest, as if guided by instinct. Within minutes, Spielberg would go from the somber mental state of depicting genocide to laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath.
Spielberg once shared that these calls were not casual entertainment. They were acts of emotional rescue. The intensity of filming in Poland, surrounded by reminders of the atrocities, left him feeling submerged in darkness. Robin’s humor pulled him back toward the surface. Sometimes it was a goofy impersonation; other times it was a bit so absurd that it broke through the emotional fog. For those moments, Spielberg could breathe again.
Their friendship had already spanned years by the early 1990s, strengthened by mutual respect and a shared understanding of the human need for joy. Robin, known for his rapid-fire wit in films like "Good Morning, Vietnam" (1987) and "Aladdin" (1992), also carried a deep awareness of how fragile people could be under pressure. He recognized that Spielberg’s burden while making "Schindler’s List" was not simply artistic, it was personal and moral.
Spielberg described these moments as a kind of lifeline. After spending hours immersed in scenes of suffering, Robin’s calls reminded him that the world still held absurdity, warmth, and lightness. Robin did not avoid the subject of the film entirely, but he never let the conversation sink into sorrow. Instead, he offered an escape route, using laughter to create enough distance for Spielberg to return to work with renewed energy.
There were times when Spielberg’s crew noticed the shift. He might arrive on set the morning after one of Robin’s calls with a lighter expression, a spark that had dimmed during particularly heavy sequences. Those close to him could see the difference, how humor, wielded with compassion, could become a form of sustenance.
Years later, Spielberg recalled one especially difficult evening after filming a gut-wrenching scene. The call came, as always, with no warning. Robin launched into an elaborate sketch about a mismatched pair of circus elephants trying to start a jazz band, complete with trumpet noises and mock arguments between the imaginary pachyderms. Spielberg laughed until tears streamed down his face, this time not from sorrow but from the release of tension.
The memory of those calls stayed with Spielberg not as a side note to the making of "Schindler’s List," but as an essential part of how he survived the experience. For him, Robin’s kindness was not measured in grand gestures, but in the persistence of showing up night after night, voice full of energy, determined to keep his friend from sinking too far into the shadows.
In later interviews, Spielberg said that these conversations taught him something profound about friendship. It was not only about being present during celebrations or successes, but also about sensing when someone was in silent need and stepping in without being asked. Robin seemed to possess an uncanny radar for those moments, and he acted on it with no expectation of recognition.
That period became a testament to how compassion can take many forms. In this case, it was laughter delivered like medicine, administered by someone who understood its healing power. Spielberg often emphasized that Robin’s humor was not a distraction from reality, but a way to endure it, a reminder that even in the darkest hours, joy could still find a way in.
It was proof that a single phone call, timed with care and offered with love, could change the course of an entire day.
