Robin Williams is one of the greatest comedians of all time. That might sound like a statement akin to “water is wet” and other such remarks, but there’s no harm in repeating something we can all agree with. While his celebrated career in stand-up comedy whose talent for rapid-fire improvisation made him one of the most influential comedians of his generation, it was his career in the film industry that elevated him to levels of admiration few celebrities can match. Most of these adhered to his comedic roots, but Williams was more than willing to step away from his comfort zone for roles that were quite at odds with his usual persona. For example, his roles as a serial killer in Insomnia or as a depressed bank teller in Boulevard sees him deliberately acting against type, with the contrast between them and a more stereotypical Robin Williams performance only heightening their severity. The differences are so large you’d be forgiven for thinking that two entirely different people were operating under one name – a feeling that, in hindsight, was unfortunately close to the truth.

It’s for this reason why The Fisher King proves itself as a standout in his filmography, and one whose power has only grown in the years following its release. Directed by Terry Gilliam, the film stars Jeff Bridges as Jack Lucas, a former radio DJ whose insensitive treatment of a mentally ill caller resulted in a mass murder-suicide at a Manhattan restaurant. Three years later, he spends his days drinking himself to death while claiming to work with his girlfriend Anne (Mercedes Ruehl) at her video rental store. He contemplates suicide, but before anything can be decided he is attacked by a group of thugs. However, help comes in the form of Parry (Williams) a delusion homeless man on a quest to find the Holy Grail hidden somewhere in New York City. While Jack is reluctant to help him in his search, he ultimately grows close to Parry after discovering his wife died in the same mass shooting he unintentionally provoked, with the mystical quest to find the Holy Grail turning into a more tangible quest to redeem his own soul from the sins of his former life. From here on out the Gilliam influence is unavoidable, with the film’s fantastical tone set against the backdrop of corporate America fitting neatly into his decades-long fascination with the strange and surreal. It’s a cocktail only Gilliam could mix to perfection, and the result is the most underrated film of his career.

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Image via Tri-Star Pictures

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But despite Jack’s transition from egotistical blowhard to loving friend forming the crux of The Fisher King’s narrative, Parry is the true star of the film. He’s a complex figure, and one who will have viewers rethinking their opinion of him the longer they spend in his company. On the one hand his slapstick mannerisms and chivalrous demeanor would make him an ideal supporting character in Gilliam’s own Jabberwocky or Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but this is merely a cover for a far more tortured and broken soul. We learn that Parry is nothing more than a coping mechanism for one Henry Sagan, a teacher at Hunter College who suffered a psychological breakdown after witnessing his wife being murdered right in front of his eyes. Upon awakening from a catatonic state the man known as Henry Sagan was no more, having undergone a Don Quixote-esc transformation (another Gilliam obsession) that leaves his previous life as nothing but a half-remembered nightmare, represented by the mythological Red Knight who stalks the darkest corners of his mind (the red representing the blood of his wife as she’s graphically shot to death). The seriousness of the surrounding subject matter only amplifies the tragedy of his character, with Parry laughing himself deeper into a pit of torment with every passing day. He’s simultaneously one of the most hilarious and devasting characters in all of cinema, and someone no viewer will forget in a hurry.

But as brilliant as Gilliam’s direction and Richard LaGravenese’s writing is, there’s no question that Williams is the real talent behind Parry. The decision to cast him in the role is nothing short of genius, and allows Williams to showcase both his comedic and dramatic talents with a character who frequently requires both. A lesser performance would have turned Parry into a dim-witted clown too silly to elicit any genuine reactions from the audience, or would have struggled to balance such conflicting emotions that would have resulted in the whole film crumbling under the fragile weight of its most important character, but Williams avoids both. Despite what first impressions may suggest, Parry is a deeply nuanced character whose true nature is only gradually uncovered over the course of the film. The excitability with which Williams plays him (outlandish even by his standards) progressively shimmers down as Jack helps to reintegrate Parry into regular society, revealing fragments of the man hidden behind the façade. There’s a subtlety to his performance that can only be appreciated in retrospect, with Williams drifting from one persona to the next with such ease it can be hard to tell where Parry stops and Henry Sagan starts. It’s an excellent demonstration of conveying the complexities of mental health without boiling things down to loud and obvious stereotypes, a feeling only strengthened by Williams having undergone such struggles in his private life.

The bulk of The Fisher King sees Jack trying to save Parry from the fictitious world he has trapped himself in, partly for his own selfish desire to feel important again after three years spent out of the limelight, but also due to the guilt he feels for causing Parry’s breakdown. He goes about this by helping Parry arrange a date with Lydia (Amanda Plummer), a woman he is smitten by but is too nervous to even consider speaking to. His fixation with her has long since crossed the line from romantic to creepy (Parry having memorized her daily routine better than she has), but the heightened sense of reality that Gilliam imbues his version of New York with negates any sinister undertones, with the entire plotline evoking memories of a classical Hollywood romance where characters go from strangers to soulmates in a matter of seconds.

The film’s greatest moment comes during one such attempt to court her in Grand Central Station, with the Main Concourse becoming the scene of a two-hundred-person ballroom dance as the fantastical world of Parry bleeds over into reality. It’s a sequence that is nothing short of magical, and watching the bustling mass of New York’s commuters suddenly partake in an extravagant musical number stands as one of the most mesmerizing moments of Gilliam’s illustrious career. It’s also a rare moment of pure unadulterated joy in a film that spends most of its time exploring the darker sides of the human psyche. Despite the comedic nature of The Fisher King, almost all of its jokes come at the expense of either Parry or another of New York’s unfortunate inhabitants as they struggle their way through daily life, creating a unique tone that will have audiences laughing one minute only to have them feel bad about it the next. It’s symbolic of our innate desire to find levity in even the most turbulent of situations (laughter being one of the crucial things that defines us as human beings), and a constant reminder that our ability to laugh in the face of adversity is often our greatest weapon to render such obstacles powerless. Williams’s performance captures this flawlessly, and while he spends most of the film trying to escape the shadow of his previous life, the sense of relief both he and the audience feels during this sequence as he finally remembers what it’s like to be happy is overwhelming.

But Williams excels even during the film’s quieter moments. The scene where Parry and Lydia finally attend their long overdue date (accompanied by Jack and Anne, of course) is the film’s most basic sequence, but that doesn’t stop Gilliam from making it any less enchanting. He shoots the scene almost entirely from a static master shot, breaking only to show Jack and Anne’s reactions that grow from bewildered to enraptured as they realize what a good match they are (“they were made for each other”, comments Anne while the lovesick couple plays soccer with a piece of leftover food). Williams is a joy to watch, and seeing the nervousness of his character gradually peel away until he’s tenderly singing “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” like it was written specifically for his date is romantic filmmaking at its finest.

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Image via Tri-Star Pictures

It’s in the aftermath of this scene that Parry retreats into his catatonic state, his brush with stability proving too much for his mind to handle. The moment when the Red Knight erupts from out of the night, fire bursting from behind its helmet while Parry begs to be allowed this one simple kindness, feels more fitting for a horror film than a rom-com, but it serves as a sudden (if unwanted) reminder that The Fisher King was never the light-hearted romp it spends much of its time pretending to be. Watching Parry burst into tears as he (quite literally) is unable to run from his demons is devastating to watch, and the abrupt shift in Williams’s performance sells the scene in a way few actors could. Thankfully Gilliam is not one to end things on too sour of a note, and thanks to Jack retrieving the fabled Holy Grail from the house of a famous architect (who Jack saves from a failed suicide attempt, thus redeeming his own character in the process), Parry finally emerges once again. Except this time, Parry is no more. It may have taken three years, but Henry Sagan has finally awoken from his slumber, ready to move forward with his life rather than forever reliving a single moment from his past. The realization that he is allowed to love again while still cherishing everything he had with his deceased wife is a powerful statement about an incredibly sensitive subject, and one that Gilliam and company treat with the maturity it deserves.

How we perceive art is a strange thing. The Fisher King is the exact same film that it was when it premiered in 1991, but that was thirty-one years ago, and William’s passing in 2014 means no one will be viewing this film through the same lens as someone three decades ago. In retrospect, the prospect of watching a film about an eccentric caricature who uses the mask of comedy to disguise his own struggles with mental health may hit a bit close to home in light of everything we now know about Williams, but it’s also a revealing insight into a subject that remains woefully underrepresented even after all these years. The optimistic note that Gilliam ends things on feels like the happily ever after that Williams never got, making its final act a hopeful and necessary reminder to everyone watching that things can (and will) get better. In 1991 The Fisher King was already Williams’s best performance thanks to its artful union of his comedic and dramatic skills, but now there is no question it is also his most heartbreaking. Parry is arguably the most autobiographical character Williams ever played, and while he serves as a tragic reminder that cinema will never be the same without him, he also acts as the greatest piece of consolation for those who can relate to his struggles.