Tributes from R.J. Mitte’s inner circle are continuing to surface in the wake of the Breaking Bad actor’s death by suicide on Monday.
Ben Brucato, who serves as CEO and founder of BLUNT MGMT in addition to a manager role at The Green Room, took to Instagram Tuesday to share a lengthy and emotional tribute to his longtime client, someone he called an “instant friend” turned family member over the course of their professional relationship.
The rep said he put the 11-slide carousel of text together with tears in his eyes while “struggling to process a grief that sometimes feels too overwhelming to bear,” a sentiment shared by many of Mitte’s colleagues and friends in the wake of the tragic news. “I am still in complete shock, absolutely devastated, and struggling to find the emotional capacity to process this loss, let alone put my feelings into words,” wrote Brucato, who reported that he met Mitte shortly after the actor turned 21. (Mitte passed away at 34.) “All I know is that I have lost a brother, and with him, a piece of my heart.”
Brucato’s tribute to the actor, who became known for his turn on Breaking Bad as Walter White Jr., the son of Bryan Cranston and Anna Gunn’s characters on Vince Gilligan’s Emmy-winning series, covered not only his advocacy on behalf of the disability community as someone who lived with cerebral palsy but also his life behind-the-scenes as a selfless friend with a zest for life, deep knowledge base and empathy in spades.
“R.J. was a walking encyclopedia, a human Swiss Army knife of knowledge. It didn’t matter what subject you brought up; he knew something about it, and more often than not, he knew enough to teach you something new, even if you thought you were already an expert. He could spend time talking anime with teenagers and then turn around and have an in-depth conversation about rockets and propulsion systems with an engineer,” praised Brucato, who also represents actors like David Faustino, Kiowa Gordon, Lexy Panterra, Raymond Cruz and Caitlin O’Connor. “His mind was endlessly curious. He could connect with people from all walks of life because he was genuinely interested in the world around him and the people in it. There was always something to learn from R.J., and there was never a dull moment when he was around.”
Mitte loved playing video games, laughing, making others feel seen and appreciated, and he always placed other’s happiness before his own, per his friend. Brucato also detailed how Mitte would travel the world to speak at conferences for free simply because he believed “the message was more important than the money.”
He shared one particular anecdote about how the two stayed up late in the night to early morning watching a Netflix comedy special from stand-up star Jim Jefferies and they were laughing so hard that Mitte’s mother, Dyna Mitte, came out of her bedroom because the laughter woke her up. He added: “I’ll never forget him taking me to a tiny, honky-tonky redneck bar in the middle of a cornfield in Texas and then tried to encourage me to learn how to line dance.”
Beyond screen credits and advocacy work, Brucato believes Mitte’s legacy will be how he treated others.
“I truly believe that anyone who had the privilege of meeting R.J. walked away from that interaction having experienced something special. He had a way of making people feel seen, heard, and accepted. He could make a stranger feel like a friend and make someone who felt different feel like they belonged.
I cannot imagine anyone meeting him and walking away without recognizing the goodness in his heart. He was an extraordinary person in every sense of the word. Not because of his fame, his accomplishments, or the places he traveled, but because of the way he treated people when he had absolutely nothing to gain from doing so. That was his greatest achievement.”
See his statement in full below, or here.
My Statement on the Passing of R.J. Mitte
This is, without question, one of the most painful and difficult things I have ever had to write. As I sit here with tears in my eyes, struggling to process a grief that sometimes feels too overwhelming to bear, I am doing my best to find the words to express what is in my heart.
First and foremost, I want to personally thank each and every one of you who has reached out to me. I have been overwhelmed by the calls, texts, social media messages, and comments from hundreds of people around the world. People who met R.J. at some point in their lives, my friends who got to know him over the years, and countless others whose lives he touched in one way or another. I sincerely apologize for not being able to respond to everyone sooner. I am still in complete shock, absolutely devastated, and struggling to find the emotional capacity to process this loss, let alone put my feelings into words.
The entertainment industry, by its very nature, can be transactional. Clients are often just clients, and sometimes those professional relationships develop into casual friendships. But every once in a while, someone comes into your life with whom you share a connection that goes far beyond business or friendship. Someone who becomes more than a friend. Someone who becomes family.
R.J. was that person for me.
From the moment we met, just a few weeks after his 21st birthday, we became instant friends. Over the years, we spent an incredible amount of time together, traveling around the world for appearances, press conferences, and meetings with presidents and prime ministers. I had the privilege of watching him stand before packed university auditoriums, members of Congress, houses of parliament, and even small community colleges, speaking passionately about disability advocacy, accessibility, and inclusion.
But R.J. never simply spoke about making the world a better place. He challenged people to look within themselves, recognize what they had to offer, and use their own abilities to help those who needed support. He wanted people to understand that inclusion wasn’t just a concept to discuss or a box to check. It was about how you treated people, how you made them feel, and whether you were willing to see the person beyond their circumstances.
R.J. was a rare kind of human being. He was someone who wanted to see other people happy long before he ever considered his own happiness. He wanted everyone to feel welcomed, accepted, and valued, regardless of their appearance, disability, education, or background.
I watched him get down on his knees to speak with someone in a wheelchair, simply because he wanted to be at eye level with them. He didn’t want them looking up at him. He wanted them to feel equal, because in his eyes, they were.
That was R.J. He didn’t just talk about equality. He lived it.
He was the person who would drop whatever he was doing to help someone else. He traveled around the world to speak at conferences without accepting payment because he believed the message was more important than the money. He dedicated countless days to volunteering with Shriners Hospitals for Children and the United Cerebral Palsy Foundation, never asking for anything in return.
He gave his time, his energy, and his heart because he genuinely wanted to make a difference. And he did.
We spent countless nights in airports dealing with delayed and canceled flights, shared adventures across the world, and experienced moments that most people will never get to experience in a lifetime. I was there to celebrate some of his greatest accomplishments, and I was there during some of his most difficult moments. I got to see the person behind the public image – the friend, the brother, the human being who meant so much to so many people.
And what a person he was.
R.J. was a walking encyclopedia, a human Swiss Army knife of knowledge. It didn’t matter what subject you brought up; he knew something about it, and more often than not, he knew enough to teach you something new, even if you thought you were already an expert. He could spend time talking anime with teenagers and then turn around and have an in-depth conversation about rockets and propulsion systems with an engineer.
His mind was endlessly curious. He could connect with people from all walks of life because he was genuinely interested in the world around him and the people in it. There was always something to learn from R.J., and there was never a dull moment when he was around.
As much as I could share countless stories about our work and the incredible experiences we had together, some of my most treasured memories are the moments when there was no work to do, no public appearances, no cameras, and no expectations. Just R.J. being R.J. Just two friends being completely ridiculous and enjoying life.
I’ll never forget the night we spent laughing so hard at Jim Jefferies’ new Netflix special at 3:30 a.m. that we were blacking out from laughing & his mother came out of her bedroom to scream at us for waking her up.
I’ll never forget him driving me through Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles in his 1969 Cougar, with no seatbelts and a broken passenger seat that left me sitting at such an awkward angle I could barely see the road.
I’ll never forget him taking me to a tiny, honky-tonky redneck bar in the middle of a cornfield in Texas and then tried to encourage me to learn how to line dance.
And I’ll never forget the countless hours we spent sitting around playing video games, making stupid jokes, and laughing at things that probably wouldn’t have made sense to anyone else.
Those are the memories that hurt the most right now, because they are the ones that remind me that, beyond everything he accomplished and every life he touched, he was my friend. My brother. My family.
And those moments were ours.
I truly believe that anyone who had the privilege of meeting R.J. walked away from that interaction having experienced something special. He had a way of making people feel seen, heard, and accepted. He could make a stranger feel like a friend and make someone who felt different feel like they belonged.
I cannot imagine anyone meeting him and walking away without recognizing the goodness in his heart. He was an extraordinary person in every sense of the word. Not because of his fame, his accomplishments, or the places he traveled, but because of the way he treated people when he had absolutely nothing to gain from doing so.
That was his greatest achievement. That was his legacy.
And now, I find myself trying to figure out how to move forward in a world where he is no longer here.
How do I get used to never receiving another random video from you on Instagram? Never seeing another text pop up on my phone or getting one of your unexpected calls? Never hearing your voice or seeing that unmistakably mischievous grin that so many people knew and loved?
How do I reconcile the fact that someone who was such a constant part of my life is suddenly someone I can only hold on to through memories?
I don’t know.
All I know is that I have lost a brother, and with him, a piece of my heart.
I know you understood how deeply we all loved you and how much you meant to us. But I wish, more than anything, that you could have seen yourself through our eyes. I wish you could have recognized the same worth, kindness, and beauty in yourself that so many of us saw in you.
I wish you had given yourself the same compassion you so freely gave to everyone else.
You had an extraordinary gift: empathy. Not the kind of empathy that simply allows someone to understand another person’s struggles, but the kind that compels them to do something about it. The kind that makes someone stop, listen, care, and act. The kind that puts another person’s happiness ahead of their own, sometimes at a tremendous personal cost.
You carried so much. You gave so much of yourself to the people around you. You took on the struggles of others and tried to make the world a little easier for them to navigate, even when your own world wasn’t always easy to navigate yourself.
I hope you knew that you didn’t always have to be the strong one. You didn’t always have to be the person helping everyone else. You deserved the same love, understanding, patience, and kindness that you gave so freely to the rest of us.
I wish you could have seen just how much you mattered — not because of what you did for others, but simply because of who you were.
I miss you more than words can express, R.J.
Thank you for coming into my life and becoming so much more than a friend. Thank you for becoming my family. Thank you for opening my eyes, challenging my assumptions, and helping me understand how naive I had been about disability, inclusion, and life itself. You taught me lessons that no book, conference, or classroom ever could, simply by being who you were.
Thank you for standing beside me during my own darkest moments, for encouraging me when I needed it most, and for reminding me to keep going, even during times when you were fighting your own battles. I wish I could have done the same for you this time.
Thank you for the adventures, the conversations, the ridiculous moments, the laughter, and the memories I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
And thank you for being you.
The world has lost one of its brightest lights and kindest souls. There is an emptiness left behind that cannot be filled, and there are so many of us who will never be quite the same without you. But I hope that, in time, we can take some comfort in knowing that the love, compassion, and humanity you brought into this world will continue through every person whose life you changed.
Your impact did not end with your life. It lives on in the people you inspired, the barriers you helped break down, the conversations you started, and the countless acts of kindness that will happen because you showed people what it means to truly care.
I will carry your friendship with me always. I will remember your laughter, your curiosity, your ridiculous sense of humor, your enormous heart, and that mischievous grin. And I will do my best to honor you by remembering the lessons you taught me and extending to others the same kindness and understanding you showed so effortlessly.
I love you, R.J. I am going to miss you for the rest of my life. It was a true privilege to not only be your agent but also part of your family.
Until we meet again, my brother, may you finally rest in paradise.
With all my love,
Ben