Anchor Struck

I had planned to post about Pete Seeger today, and I will soon.  But I was genuinely moved yesterday by the sudden death of Philip Seymour Hoffman from an apparent heroin overdose.  Celebrity deaths rarely affect me.  Hoffman’s did.  The humanity he could infuse into even the smallest of roles was astonishing.  And it never seemed forced.

He was an arrogant rich kid in The Talented Mr. Ripley, a boisterous middle-class one in Twister, and a pathetic poor one in Boogie Nights.   He’s been a political operative, a nurse, a religious leader, a pirate DJ, a recovering alcoholic and a writer for Rolling Stone.  After establishing himself as a standout supporting actor, Hoffman — a large man — morphed into diminutive Truman Capote and won an Oscar for best actor of 2005.

He could make unappealing characters accessible, even fascinating.  As a sleazy journalist in Red Dragon, he delivered a knockout scene in which he reacted in abject horror to off-screen mutilations.  As a creep in Happiness and a gambling addict in Owning Mahoney, Hoffman didn’t make them sympathetic, but rather showed us why they did what they did.

His range was incredible.  He was convincing as down-to-earth Oakland A’s manager Art Howe in Moneyball, and just as persuasive as a pre-op trangendering drag queen in Flawless.

Jude and I marked Hoffman’s death by watching The Big Lebowski last night.  He played Brandt, the sycophantic assistant to a rich man.  (Think Smithers on The Simpsons.)  Soon we’ll catch him in 2012’s The Master, for which he received a Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination.