Philip Seymour Hoffman, 23 years of brilliant performances

“I got to remember to not kill myself, not beat myself up, not get too worked up about it.” Philip Seymour Hoffman said these words in an interview with The Guardian’s Simon Hattenstone back in 2011. In Hattenstone’s profile of Hoffman, that one line didn’t have the tragic aura it does today. It actually seemed to be wryly hopeful. Hoffman was telling Hattenstone that now as the father of three, his family gave him a sounder sense of grounding. The profile ended with Hoffman being described as “the bleakest optimist that you ever did see”. Last night, at some point, the bleakness overpowered the optimism. Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead in his Manhattan apartment, reportedly with a needle in his arm and an envelope of heroin near his dead body. As news of Hoffman’s passing spread and his admirers mourned his passing, there was one quote that circulated far and wide: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we’re uncool.” It’s a line delivered by Lester Bangs, in Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous. [caption id=“attachment_1372001” align=“alignleft” width=“380”]  Reuters[/caption] Guess how Lester Bangs, the real-life music critic played by Hoffman in Almost Famous, died? Of a drug overdose. Although Bangs didn’t die of heroine overdose (he’d consumed a lethal cocktail of Darvon, Valium and NyQuil), the parallel between his reality and that of the actor who played him in the film is eerie. Hoffman’s life was his work and now, even his death contains a shadow of that same work. Some years ago, during an interview, Hoffman had said that he knew how powerless he was against the lure of intoxicants. “I am not ever going to preach to anyone about drugs or drinking,” said Hoffman. “But, for me, when they were around, I had no self control.” After discovering alcohol and substance abuse as a young man, Hoffman cleaned up at the age of 22 and stayed clean for more than 20 years. Last year, however, Hoffman checked into rehab, reportedly for heroin abuse. It seems Hoffman was keenly aware that he was spiralling downward, even as his career was on a high. Think of the famous names associated with heroin overdose and most of them are flamboyant creatures — artist Jean Michel Basquiat, Sid Vicious of The Sex Pistols — often known for their recklessness and wild antics. Hoffman, however, wasn’t one of those. The following and admiration he commanded came not from his off-screen behaviour, but his onscreen excellence. When we remember Hoffman today, we don’t remember a speech, a quotable quote in an interview, his politics or a publicity stunt that he pulled while promoting a project. We remember his brilliant performances. Hoffman could add nuance to something as mundane as the act of yelling “shut up” repeatedly. He could lace a smile with anything from venom to vulnerability, depending on what the scene demanded. From the shy Scotty in Boogie Nights to the chilling Lancaster Dodd in The Master, Hoffman’s roles explored a giddy variety of human traits. He could be the suave Freddie Miles in The Talented Mr. Ripley with as much ease as when he spat out abuses as the foul-mouthed Gust Avrakotos in Charlie Wilson’s War. The hefty Hoffman, who was a wrestler as a young man before injury put paid to that possible career, turned into the delicate, thin-voiced Truman Capote so completely that his performance in Capote felt like an elaborate and flawless magic trick. Knowing Hoffman had been struggling with a drug problem brings to mind how often he played characters struggling with substance abuse, and how beautifully he crafted them into being. Think, for instance, of his electric performance as Andy, who is so desperately addicted to drugs that he fiddles with his company’s accounts to finance his addiction, in The Devil Knows You’re Dead. Hoffman appeared in more than 50 films in his 23-year career. He was also the artistic director of the New York-based Labyrinth Theatre and gave stellar performances in plays like Death of a Salesman, The Seagull and Jack Goes Boating. Hoffman also directed the film based on the play Jack Goes Boating. After a brief appearance in Law and Order back in 1991, Hoffman was due to return to television this year with Happyish, a series that wondered whether at the root of our unhappiness was the pursuit of happiness itself. It’s difficult to find an actor who can match Hoffman’s versatility and prodigious talent. When speaking as himself, Hoffman came across as a pleasant but unremarkable man. He didn’t ooze the charisma of heroes when out of character. He didn’t labour at appearing ‘cool’ or pepper his answers with clever wordplay. He spoke slowly, as though unwilling to let his real self get in between the audience and the roles he played. Hoffman was not a celebrity with a public persona. He was an actor. “He just brought every fiber of his being to the stage,” said Robert Falls, who directed Hoffman in Long Day’s Journey, a play about an addict filled with self-loathing. “He was there — with his depth of feeling, depth of humanity — and no other actor I’ve ever worked with ever brought it like that.” That’s why it’s so desperately heartbreaking that Hoffmen has passed away at only 46. Heartthrobs and style icons can be replaced. But talent, lost like this, can only be mourned.