Boxing The Black Dog

 



Why does  the  gift for  great performance  seem  to go hand in hand   with  unshakeable  depression  ?

By  Dick Cavett
Robin Williams  will not  be the last cherished  performer to be  snatched  from our  midst  by depression and  suicide .

It's  a melancholy  fact  that what  a musician friend  calls  the real  blues  and Winston Churchill  calls the  black dog  seems  to have  much too  close  an affinity to the performer's life . Depression seems to stalk  the lively  arts  like  Jack the Ripper  , accompanied  by depression's  handmaiden , suicide .

No one  I  know  claims  to know why . Is there  something in the brain  chemistry  of the  performer  that produces  this woeful result ? I could fill this page  and another  with  the names  of  famous  and less so actors  , comics  and  musicians  who live miserably ... and die  ... in association  with the  demon  of a hound .

Booze  is the flavored  self-treatment . Not  surprising , because  you will feel  a little  better  , for  a bit ...a brief  and costly  reprieve  , since alcohol is  a depressant  of the  central  nervous  system .

I guarantee  you  that thousands  , hearing of Robin's death  , asked how  he  could  do it when he  had everything : fame , wealth , adulation , family love  and another  supposed  insulator  against  the worst of  blues  ... plenty of  work . No combination  of those adds up  to insurance . And the hectic  , nerve-racking  ups and downs  of  fortune  in show  business  are , of  course  , a major  factor  in emotional  disequilibrium .

You , yourself  may have thought , "How  could  he  do this  to his wife  and kids  ?" Easy . Because  that's what  been call  the worst agony  devised  for man  doesn't  allow  you to feel  any emotion  for  kids , spouse , lover , parents  ... even your  beloved dog . And least of  all yourself .

I know  Robin  knew this  . His death  recalled  a moment  with him years  ago  in a small club . He came off  after lifting   a cheering  audience  to its feet . "Isn't  it  funny how  I can bring  great  happiness  to all those people  , He said . "But  not to myself ."

The  nonfactor  has  a major  advantage  , because  its  harder  to hide  symptoms . The  actor  knows  how to act . To play  having  fun . How  often  its "He was the  life of the party  that night . And then he went  home  and  ..."

Robin and I  agreed once that it's  galling to hear ... when  you're "in it" ...  the  question : "What  have  you got  to be  depressed  about ? The British  actor  and  comedian  Stepan Fry , a fellow sufferer , replies , "And what  have  you got to have asthma  about ?"

Robin , like  my idol  Jonathan  Winters , must  have  had  one of the world's hardest talents with which  to live  and still retain personal  balance . Sitting  next to him  on my old  PBS show  was like sitting  in the Macy's barge  next to the fireworks  going off . He was at full manic  comic  frenzy  for an hour without  letup . (We  even improvised  a short  Shakespeare play together   with and without  rhymed couplets .) I caught  his manic  energy  . It was  exhilarating . And exhausting .

When it ended , I was wet  and spent . It  took him a while  to come  down  (partially) down  and I  thought , "Can this be  good  for  anyone  ? Can you be able  to do all  these rapid-fire  personality  changes  and emerge  knowing  who  you  yourself  are  ?"

But  can  any of  us  really  see ourselves  ?  I was  unable  to watch a show  I once did  with Laurence  Olivier  while I was virtually  blind  with depression . I later  told Marlon Brando  I could never watch it  , knowing I'd look dead  , slow  and stupid . "Do me a favor ," he said . "Watch it ." I  Made myself  watch . I looked  fine . My eyes  was  bright  and the  silences  I recalled was gone . I called Brando  and asked him what explained  that . "Automatic pilot."  We all get by  on it when the clouds  roll in . Too bad  they roll in when the performance  ends   and  you get back under the  bed ."

This will not  brighten the picture  . I said  to  a brilliant psycho-pharmacologist  recently  that there  must  be a lot of progress  and new   medications  since I suffered back in the  70s .  The answer  : "No , we're  really not  making  much progress , I'm afraid ."

Someday,  will some  chemical  link  be  found  between great , great  performing  talent  and susceptibility  to the  awful  conqueror  of the  talented  performer ? Are  the  gods  jealous ? Do the immortals cruelly  envy  the  greatly  gifted   and , in the  classic  Greek  manner  , smite  them low  ? The  somewhat  grim answer  we'd better  enjoy  them while  we can .
Dick Cavett  was the host  of the Dick Cavett Show  from 1968 to 1982 . He is the author  of the  forthcoming  Brief Encounters  Conversations , Magic  Moments  and Assorted  Hijinks .