Rob Reiner, his death and legacy

Rob Reiner had talent. Real talent. Once upon a time, he made people laugh instead of lecturing them. That version of Rob Reiner was worth celebrating.

Then he became angry. Loudly angry. Permanently angry. For ten straight years, his public identity narrowed to one obsession. Smear Trump. Repeat. Reload. Do it again tomorrow.

It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t brave. It was tedious. And eventually, it poisoned the well. When the ranting began, I stopped watching. Not out of protest. Out of exhaustion.

America treated Rob Reiner extraordinarily well. He lived the dream most people never touch. And yet he spoke as if the country had personally wronged him. That kind of bitterness is hard to sell as moral clarity.

The phrase “shut up and sing” was never about silencing anyone. It was a warning. If you turn art into scolding, the applause will stop. Reiner ignored that warning. He was wealthy enough to ignore it.

I don’t mourn his death. That doesn’t make me heartless. It makes me honest.

I do question his parenting. His son Nick’s failure to stay sober is not proof of anything, but it is not nothing either. I am not claiming to know what happened in that home. I am saying it invites uncomfortable questions.

This is not my tragedy. But it is one for many others. Reiner had legions of admirers and friends who believed exactly as he did. My sympathy lies with Nick Reiner’s siblings. They are collateral damage in a story they did not write, and no one deserves to endure grief like this.

Death does not erase a legacy. It freezes it. And Rob Reiner’s final chapter was not comedy. It was anger. A true case of Trump Derangement Syndrome.

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