A fellow thespian and film buff called me Sunday afternoon. "Hey, one of our favorite actors just died." Like all middle-aged movie fans, I've known that one day we'll be seeing a flood of tributes to one of our titan thespians, the ones getting on in years -- Jack Nicholson, Robert Redford, etc. When I asked who, I was stunned to learn that it was arguably the greatest actor of my own generation -- Philip Seymour Hoffman, found with a syringe hanging out of his arm like some grotesque scene from a William Burroughs novel.
I felt a certain kinship with Hoffman. Acting is what I might have pursued (as a profession) if I hadn't been more interested in journalism. The theater remains important to me, and the stage is a place I've revisited countless times over the years in amateur productions, some really fun stuff. What I liked about Hoffman was that he was, physically, a little like me. Same age, deep voice, sort of stocky, with a paunch, and average looking, not Hollywood handsome. Not Brad Pitt, in other words. I always took a certain amount of pride in the fact that someone like that could do what he did. Of course, I could never do what he did. As an actor and artist, he was lightning in a bottle. He was my generation's Brando. He was the best, period.
And now he's gone, and that is profoundly sad.
One never would have thought, looking at him stuffed into those cheap, too-small T-shirts he wore as Scotty J., the porn film crewman in "Boogie Nights," that the same person would go on to win an Oscar playing Truman Capote, or that he would make a ferocious villain in a "Mission Impossible" film, or that he could pull off the cult leader Lancaster Dodd in "The Master." Or the fast-talking CIA analyst in "Charlie Wilson's War." Or the compassionate nurse in "Magnolia." Or anybody. He could play anybody. He was a tall man, but I swear in "Capote" he actually made himself look small. Not to mention what he did with his voice.
Hoffman always made it work. You always believed him. Even if the film was crap -- and he made so many of them, some inevitably were -- he was always amazing. He could carry a film, or show up halfway through and dazzle you with one or two scenes. But the thing is, you believed in the character. He wasn't a chameleon like DeNiro was in his prime, gaining or losing an insane amount of weight. He couldn't slip past you, unrecognized, like some actors can, because he really couldn't ever get away with not looking like Philip Seymour Hoffman. His look was too ... big. Too distinctive. You always knew it was him, and yet -- he was always different. And even if he was playing someone from the "fringes" of life, he never did caricature. His characters were always deeply, profoundly human. Complex. Contradictory.
I'll bet there are legions of movie fans who saw and loved him in one thing or another who don't even know that he was also an accomplished stage actor. That's where the bug bit him: His mom took him to see a play. The variety of his choices for the stage was just as impressive as for the screen. As all actors should, Hoffman did Shakespeare. He played Iago. Having done some Shakespeare and being intimately familiar with many of the plays, I'll say that Hoffman isn't the first actor who comes to mind when I think of Iago. But on the other hand, I have no doubt that he knocked it out of the park. Because he always did. That's what he did. The list goes on. He did Chekhov. O'Neill. Arthur Miller. Sam Shepherd. Was there anything he couldn't do? I don't think so.
I'm glad he made so many films, because there are quite a few I haven't seen yet. I have yet to see him and Ethan Hawke in "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." So I have that, and others, to look forward to.
But we'll never see his Lear. Or Prospero. Or Hickey. He's the only actor I can think of who would have made four hours of "The Iceman Cometh" not simply tolerable, but thrilling. Hoffman wasn't yet old, but he was a titan. The loss of such a talented and serious artist in his prime is a genuine tragedy.
I felt a certain kinship with Hoffman. Acting is what I might have pursued (as a profession) if I hadn't been more interested in journalism. The theater remains important to me, and the stage is a place I've revisited countless times over the years in amateur productions, some really fun stuff. What I liked about Hoffman was that he was, physically, a little like me. Same age, deep voice, sort of stocky, with a paunch, and average looking, not Hollywood handsome. Not Brad Pitt, in other words. I always took a certain amount of pride in the fact that someone like that could do what he did. Of course, I could never do what he did. As an actor and artist, he was lightning in a bottle. He was my generation's Brando. He was the best, period.
And now he's gone, and that is profoundly sad.
One never would have thought, looking at him stuffed into those cheap, too-small T-shirts he wore as Scotty J., the porn film crewman in "Boogie Nights," that the same person would go on to win an Oscar playing Truman Capote, or that he would make a ferocious villain in a "Mission Impossible" film, or that he could pull off the cult leader Lancaster Dodd in "The Master." Or the fast-talking CIA analyst in "Charlie Wilson's War." Or the compassionate nurse in "Magnolia." Or anybody. He could play anybody. He was a tall man, but I swear in "Capote" he actually made himself look small. Not to mention what he did with his voice.
Hoffman always made it work. You always believed him. Even if the film was crap -- and he made so many of them, some inevitably were -- he was always amazing. He could carry a film, or show up halfway through and dazzle you with one or two scenes. But the thing is, you believed in the character. He wasn't a chameleon like DeNiro was in his prime, gaining or losing an insane amount of weight. He couldn't slip past you, unrecognized, like some actors can, because he really couldn't ever get away with not looking like Philip Seymour Hoffman. His look was too ... big. Too distinctive. You always knew it was him, and yet -- he was always different. And even if he was playing someone from the "fringes" of life, he never did caricature. His characters were always deeply, profoundly human. Complex. Contradictory.
I'll bet there are legions of movie fans who saw and loved him in one thing or another who don't even know that he was also an accomplished stage actor. That's where the bug bit him: His mom took him to see a play. The variety of his choices for the stage was just as impressive as for the screen. As all actors should, Hoffman did Shakespeare. He played Iago. Having done some Shakespeare and being intimately familiar with many of the plays, I'll say that Hoffman isn't the first actor who comes to mind when I think of Iago. But on the other hand, I have no doubt that he knocked it out of the park. Because he always did. That's what he did. The list goes on. He did Chekhov. O'Neill. Arthur Miller. Sam Shepherd. Was there anything he couldn't do? I don't think so.
I'm glad he made so many films, because there are quite a few I haven't seen yet. I have yet to see him and Ethan Hawke in "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." So I have that, and others, to look forward to.
But we'll never see his Lear. Or Prospero. Or Hickey. He's the only actor I can think of who would have made four hours of "The Iceman Cometh" not simply tolerable, but thrilling. Hoffman wasn't yet old, but he was a titan. The loss of such a talented and serious artist in his prime is a genuine tragedy.
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