Mike Nichols Was One of the Good Ones

Mike Nichols never raped anyone. He never beat any of his (four) wives. He was never the subject of a scathing thinkpiece, nor the target of online indignation. He was a good man, a decent man, respected by his peers, and the recipient of much-deserved professional accolades. It is sad that this is what makes him an exception to most comedic legends, but what can you do (other than, of course, hate everything)?

​His recent death affected me much more than I thought it would, for the simple fact that the tidal wave of articles that have been written about the horrific misdeeds of my former comedic idols has destroyed my ability to truly trust anyone I once admired who has XY chromosomes. If Bill Cosby, America's garishly sweatered rubber-faced dad, is capable of what over a dozen women claim he's capable of, the world is an even worse place than I thought it was. (And I've always been of the opinion that it's quite bad.)

With each revelation that someone I worshipped as a child allegedly molested a child, drugged and raped multiple women, beat his wife, etc., my desire to find a quick exit off this mortal coil increases, as does the love I have for men like Nichols. He proved you didn't need to be tortured in order to be an artist; he proved that well-adjusted people could still be funny, and that biting social commentary is best delivered through a wide, "Ah, shucks," grin.

In the late 50s, he and Elaine May, his comedy partner (and—hold your applause—comedic equal), performed subversive satire the likes of which have yet to be replicated. In my favorite performance of theirs, at the ​1959 Emmy Awards, he played a lowest-common-denominator loving television producer who accepted the first-ever "Total Mediocrity Award" from Mays (acting on behalf of the Academy); in doing so, they essentially shat all over the entire audience, who loved every second of it.

He could be biting, yes, but he was never cruel. He was, in spite of his success, ever humble. Nichols was one of a handful of people to win an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony award, but never made a big deal of it. His humility, and his decency, always set him apart. It's also what made him fly under the radar in a way few other legends have.

If you're under the age of 35, the first time you heard Nichols's name may very well have been when you read of his passing. You've seen The Graduate, sure, but you probably didn't know he directed it (and won an Oscar for doing so). His lack of flashiness, his unwillingness to be self-congratulatory, always praising others before himself, is what made him special.

In sharp contrast to most men of his era, he respected and celebrated the work of women. He was intimidated by May's talent, and never treated her as less than his partner. When their duo disbanded, they continued to work together; she wrote the screenplays for The Birdcage and Primary Colors, both of which he directed. He was best friends with Susan Sontag. He directed Gilda Live, the filmed adaptation of Gilda Radner's live show. He discovered Whoopi Goldberg when she was still struggling as a street performer and introduced her to a larger audience. He was, indeed, one of the good ones. And by "ones," I mean "straight white males who work in the entertainment industry."

Why is his capacity for basic human decency so exceptional? Why is the fact that he never did anything awful with his celebrity, never trapped a woman in his hotel room and jerked off in front of her, so noteworthy? Praiseworthy, even? What does it say about our society that he's a more admirable idol than his peers because he didn't commit monstrous acts? Is being awful part and parcel with being an entertainer?

Most importantly, why are we so willing to let successful men revel in their awfulness? Do we feel as though their misdeeds somehow inform, even facilitate, their work? Or do we simply not care, so long as the work is artistically sound or they make us laugh?

Nichols is gone now. I wish he weren't. Please don't tell me he did something atrocious during his short time here on Earth. I couldn't bear to hear it. Who, then, could I continue to respect?

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