Requiem for an Actor: Remembering Philip Seymour Hoffman

(Image via airshipdaily.com)

By Jay Croucher

There are movie stars and there are actors. Movie stars we love because they’re recognisable and we enjoy the way they make us feel comfortable. Actors we love because they’re unrecognisable and we take pleasure in the way they make us feel uncomfortable.

Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts, George Clooney, Sandra Bullock, Brad Pitt… These are movie stars. The names of their characters and the contexts they work in may change, but for the most part these ‘actors’ are playing slight variations of themselves in each film they appear in. No matter what the role, Tom Cruise will always be his cocksure, grinning, energetic (dickhead) self. Sandra Bullock is eternally down-to-earth and charmingly manic. That’s the baggage of a movie star.  There’s nothing necessarily wrong with this. It’s a genuine talent to have such a level of natural charisma that people want to spend their time and money to see you. It’s enjoyable building up a history with a movie star and seeing their idiosyncrasies and personalities carry over from film to film, appreciating the subtle differences between each role. The difference between a movie star and an actor though is that the differences between each actor’s roles are not subtle at all.

There are very few genuine actors remaining today. A genuine actor is someone who can disappear into their role, embody their character in the truest sense and make you forget that you’re watching someone paid to perform. People like Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan Gosling, Kate Winslet and Nicole Kidman come close but border closer on ‘movie star’. DiCaprio is essentially always playing the same character – a magnetic and charming Jimmy Stewart-like exterior masking a bubbling internal conflict. He’s like a pitcher who can only throw a fastball, but that’s fine because that one pitch is 100mph and strikes everyone out. On the other hand, Philip Seymour Hoffman had a curveball, a changeup, a slider and that 100mph fastball too.

Unless you want to make an argument for Joaquin Phoenix or Sean Penn (I personally do not), Philip Seymour Hoffman was the last genuine male actor working in America. Across the Atlantic Ocean Daniel Day Lewis and Christian Bale are doing fine work, but in America no actor could disappear into the variety of roles that Philip Seymour Hoffman could. He was the male answer to Meryl Streep. With perfect pitch Hoffman played a tragically hopeless gay man (Boogie Nights), a refreshingly cynical political advisor (The Ides of March), a magnificently arrogant playboy (The Talented Mr. Ripley), a male nurse with a heart of gold (Magnolia), a Mission Impossible villain, a surly baseball manager (Moneyball), a captivating cult leader (The Master) and perhaps most memorably, a heart-warmingly wise rock journalist (Almost Famous).

Hoffman’s gift was that he could own a film in only two or three scenes. In Punch-Drunk Love, Hoffman plays a shockingly loud and violent, yet hilarious, con-artist and only features in a handful of scenes. Punch-Drunk Love is one of my ten favourite films of all time, and in what must be about three minutes of screen time, Hoffman steals the movie. His commanding verbal authority and ability to oscillate between seriousness and hopelessness was unmatched. His subtle humour was criminally underrated too.

I will always remember two specific Hoffman scenes. The first is in The Ides of March where Hoffman, a political campaigner, lectures Ryan Gosling’s character on the importance of loyalty in politics.

The second scene I’ll remember is Hoffman’s speech in Almost Famous about ‘uncool’. If every kid saw this clip on their first day of high school a lot of the world’s problems would be solved.

The stark contrast between these scenes captures what makes Hoffman such a remarkable actor. In the Ides scene, Hoffman exudes a commanding, almost brutal authority and an effortlessly icy cynicism. In the Almost Famous scene, he is poignantly paternal, comforting and eternally hopeful. In both roles he is immaculate, a testament to his unparalleled range. I suspect most people would associate Hoffman more with the first scene than the second, given his propensity to play cynical or forlorn men. To me though, Hoffman will always be Lester Bangs, waxing lyrical about rock n roll and delivering magical lines like ‘the only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool’. That’s the beauty of Hoffman, the fact that to you or me he can be anyone, because he played everyone.

By all accounts Hoffman was even better on the stage than he was on the screen. Those who were fortunate enough to see him on Broadway in True West and Death of a Salesman will be able to speak of those experiences the same way that people speak of seeing Jimi Hendrix or Nirvana in concert. However, if there is one silver lining in Hoffman’s death it is that we have a wealth of films to remember him by. While Kurt Cobain only made three albums before his death, Hoffman appeared in over fifty films. Although the tragedy of being denied what would have come defeats the triumph of what has already been accomplished, the multitude of films that Hoffman has already made ensures that his legacy will be both diverse and durable. The world and New York City will miss Philip Seymour Hoffman, but above all cinema will miss him. There are very few actors left in the world and now there is one fewer.