The first time I saw the actor in Philip Seymour Hoffman was when I watched Scent Of A Woman, where he was overshadowed by a crotchety Al Pacino who ho-ah'ed his way to a long overdue Oscar win. Hoffman, that laid-back little rich git he played with that bowl haircut, caught my attention. With a perpetually amused face and a complacent grin slapped across it, Hoffman made a likable boor. And I liked the way he said Chas. I mean, you could almost hear the smile in that syllable. For the next two weeks, I imitated him by calling everyone Chas.
The death of Philip Seymour Hoffman last week dejected me greatly and, like other fans of his work, I ached to write a tribute to the great actor who brought the art back into acting. Hoffman was my favorite actor, make no mistake, and I had to endure the aggravation caused by the smug "Who is he?" whenever somebody asked me who my favorite actor was. Well, I don't write a lot of tributes but I wanted to write one in his memory. That's who he was. And while the other homages poured in, I got lost in the crowd. Then, I did something that I found to be truly worthwhile - I watched Capote, The Master and Almost Famous. All in a day.
What started out as a tribute to him turned into a treat for me.
Hoffman's voice was fascinating. Deep and rumbling, it made me think of dark tunnels and ravines I'd never seen. And his laughter was booming, he laughed from the heart. Even his fake, practiced laugh was an amused one. It's an odd combination for someone who played Truman Capote, whose voice was more like a squeak and who laughed coldly, mechanically. I never knew Capote, I'd never read his books nor seen his interviews with the exception of the Frost one. And the first thing I noticed in Bennett Miller's masterful debut was how the deep turned into the squeak. With an evident lisp.
Watching Capote three days ago, I was hit by a sudden pang of awe. And this wasn't the first time I was watching the film. This experience felt different. Because this time, I was fully aware of the fact that the actor who was reveling in the mannerisms of Capote on the screen won't act again.
Hoffman sneaked into his character like he was walking around in it all his life. Capote was a larger-than-life person, a unapologetic sucker for attention and praise, and a dismal friend. He walked like Capote, with a snobbish strut and a deadpan face. He sat like Capote, drank like Capote, laughed like Capote. He became Capote, and I suspect even the great author didn't understand himself as well as Hoffman understood him.
There is a remarkable sequence which somehow leaves me lost for words every single time I watch it. Rack your brains - it's the sequence where the character of Perry Smith uses the word exacerbate to describe something, and then proceeds to explain what it means. To which the character of Capote frigidly replies, "There's not a word, or a sentence or a concept that you can illuminate for me." Watch Hoffman in that scene. Watch him closely. It's plain diabolical, like the punch you've been waiting all along. I watch that scene again and again because it's genius the way it was effectuated. In a single, cold squeak, the movie turned into a great one for me.
We'll never see Hoffman act again. He was a great, great actor.
He was cool by being uncool in Almost Famous. The guy gave a damn lecture on coolness in the movie. I mean, how cool is that?
He was rightfully called Master in The Master. A title I conferred on him a long time ago. The others caught up only last year.
He made me do something I thought wasn't possible - take sides against Meryl Streep in Doubt. I mean, how many times do you take sides against Meryl Streep, tell me?
Goodbye, Chas. You were found gold, you were the Master, you were the Capote we all wanted to know and you were goddamn cool.
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