The Fisher King (1991)

Damn it. Robin Williams is dead. When I heard the awful news, I knew “The Fisher King” was the first film I wanted to watch, honoring the man. This is his greatest performance as Parry, a former academic who suffers a mental collapse after the murder of his wife, and lives homeless on the New York streets. The unstable gunman was set off by a shock jock radio host (Jeff Bridges) who decries yuppies on air, but lives in a NYC flat as lifeless as the moon. The main action of Terry Gilliam’s pitch-black drama/comedy takes place three years after when Parry saves Jack from suicide. Jack, realizing Parry’s downfall, commits to “saving” Parry. Serving his own ego. Dig the 15-minute midsection where Parry –- taken in by Jack -- woos his dream woman (Amanda Plummer) at dinner then walks her home, only to suffer a breakdown, pleading, “Let me have this,” to his demons. What follows is Williams’ finest moment. Also dig Williams’ perfectly told tale of a lonely, turmoil-stricken king. It’s a heartbreaking moment that now ought to leave any person in tears. Bridges, in the lead role, is excellent as always. A full daft feast. A