While most people consider the wretched state of modern cinema a product of inflated budgets, star egos and $20 million salaries, I'm blaming it on Robin Williams. That may seem unfair, especially given that the profession named a three-hour variation of Dirty Dancing set in a sinking cruise ship as its best picture last year, but sadly, it's deserved.

Once a hilarious, somewhat raunchy comedian who pushed the envelope of acceptability, Williams has settled into a career of playing middle-of-the- road milquetoasts aimed at offending no one. Whereas early in his professional life he appeared in films that at least had creative intentions (with the exception of Popeye, which I'm guessing was done on a dare), Williams' recent pictures feel like they were pieced together in a boardroom.

This has happened because with the huge amounts of money at stake in Hollywood, business people make many of the creative decisions. As you can imagine, this works almost as well as letting a creative person, say Woody Allen, run your business.

Business doesn't let this happen because creative folks would invariably not see the marketing genius of a maneuver like repackaging an old product and selling it as new and improved. Conversely, when you let marketing managers conduct focus groups to determine the plots of films, you get please-everyone drivel like Patch Adams.

Though this melodramatic sap-fest contained more cliches than a Celine Dion single, it still managed to gross more than $100 million at the box office. That's mostly because the public has embraced anything even vaguely heartwarming.

Never mind that Adams has about 45 touching seconds amid two-plus hours of Williams' unfunny schtick. It's "feel-good," and that excuses just about any plot deficiency.

Stars like Williams deliver an audience as long as they appear in familiar roles. That's why people flock to see Kevin Costner as a romantic hero and stay away in droves when he plays a futuristic aquaman trying to find "Gilligan's Island."

For Williams, that means playing an overgrown man-child who "won't grow up." It also means maintaining a delicate balance between seeming funny, which Middle America apparently eats up, and actually being funny, which may offend someone.

This has led to a string of starring roles that has included Jumanji, Jack, Flubber, and the wildly over-praised Mrs. Doubtfire. That film, a man-in-drag spoof that got most of its "humor" from having a man wear a dress, stole several plot points from "The Brady Bunch." The movie's conclusion even used the "two dates for the same evening that require different outfits" device, one which Congress required every sitcom in the 70s and 80s to use at least once.

I never would have thought that Pam Dawber was actually the talented one on "Mork and Mindy," but at least she had the good sense to fall off the face of the Earth. Sure, it's probably lonely out there with only people like Anthony Michael Hall for company, but at least she didn't get upstaged by flubber.