I never met Philip Seymour Hoffman, though I know people who knew him. But since right before the Super Bowl when I first heard of his tragic death from a reported drug OD at 46 years old in an Greenwich Village apartment only a few block from where I grew up, I’ve been deeply grieving. And so have so many of my actual friends with whom I’ve been speaking and emailing. It feels like we’ve lost a close family member.
In my lifetime I’ve experienced the untimely death of many great performing artists — actors, musicians, dancers — sometimes from substance abuse, sometimes from AIDS, sometimes from natural causes. But I don’t think I can remember one that has personally hit me so hard as Phil Hoffman’s death. (Forgive me if I refer to him as “Phil”, the name his friends called him, because even though I had one degree of separation from him through several people who did know him, he felt like he could have been a friend.)
There was something so intimate about each of his performances — You felt like you knew, or could have known each of his characters. And because you felt like you knew his characters, you felt like you knew Phil — Or rather the dozens of different Phils embodied in the extraordinary range of characters he played. And how many more dozens or even hundreds more might there have been if he had lived?
Where to begin remembering this extraordinary range of deeply flawed and human characters?
One of the first I remember is the gay hanger on in love with a porn star in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Boogie Nights”:
Then there was the Rolling Stone rock critic Lester Bangs in Cameron Crowe’s “Almost Famous”:
His most acclaimed part was his Oscar-winning role as another writer, Truman Capote, in “In Cold Blood” in which in transformed his hulking, 200-pound plus frame, into the diminutive Capote:
And then there was “Doubt”, in which the greatest contemporary American male actor played opposite the greatest contemporary female actor Meryl Streep:
Hoffman’s stage work — performed in everything from tiny off-off Broadway flea bags to the biggest Broadway houses — was even more intimate than his film work. “Death of a Salesman” is a play I’ve known well for decades since I wrote my senior high school English paper on Arthur Miller and which I’ve seen in numerous amateur and professional productions. But I’ll never forget seeing Hoffman’s performance as Willy Loman on Broadway a couple of years ago, a role to which he brought new layers of depth and pathos to perhaps the greatest tragic character in modern American theater. He brought me to tears. I’d love to show a clip, but Hoffman didn’t allow his live stage work to be recorded.
And maybe the strain of pulling full-blooded characters out of his soul eight times a week in live theater, even more than his film work, took such a toll on Hoffman’s psyche that he needed …read more
Source: More Celeb News1