“Iconic” is a word that gets thrown around a lot. We use it in reference to well-known people – be it athletes, political figures, or any such inspirational figure. In the world of film, the term is usually reserved for imposing, verbose characters or the actors that play them – individuals who make an impression in a strikingly grandiose fashion.
Then there are actors who define themselves in an entirely different fashion – by alternating between the worlds of subtlety and bombast. Performers this versatile may be rare, but the impact they leave on the wide range of films and artists they touch is indelible.
Philip Seymour Hoffman was such an actor. Intense, generous, and never anything short of brilliant, he remained impossible to pin down to any archetype for the entirety of a career that lasted over twenty years and moved from stage to screen with remarkable ease. Many have been quick to classify him as a “character actor,” a label that doesn’t necessarily mesh with the fact that the characters Hoffman put on screen were often highlights of the movies they belonged to. His face was instantly recognizable, but most mainstream audiences would come to know his name. When Hoffman was found dead at the age 46 on February 2nd, the sadness expressed by those who knew and worked with him was shared by moviegoers who may have encountered his virtuosity once or twice.
From the first time he appeared on film in 1992, Hoffman steadily compiled a diverse filmography that encompassed every genre. In that year alone, he surfaced in the character-driven drama Scent of a Woman and the raucous Steve Martin vehicle Leap of Faith. Soon came Paul Thomas Anderson’s Hard Eight, which resulted in a continuous working relationship between the two – Hoffman starred in four of the director’s later films, creating angry and sympathetic characters charged with emotion along the way. Anderson was not the only filmmaker who had the honor of directing him multiple times. His friendship with Bennett Miller, one that began in the theatre world, bred embodiments of historical figures in both Capoteand Moneyball, the former of which brought Hoffman an Academy Award for his unforgettable and transformative portrayal of that film’s title figure.
And yet, he had no interest in the pointless air of celebrity that surrounded such accolades. Some who encountered him near his home in The City identified him as gruff when he was unresponsive to their hounding. But to those who understood, Hoffman was just a regular guy – a neighbor who could be seen at local restaurants or at Knicks games, kids in tow.
Every performance Hoffman gave made sense. While his realization of Death of a Salesman’s Willy Loman (onstage in 2012) was clearly different from his imposing turn as the archvillain in Mission: Impossible III, there was a throughline of relatability that ran underneath his acting. When he made his directorial debut with an adaptation of the play Jack Goes Boating in 2010, the mood, as well as his titular performance, seemed like an encapsulation of a theme present in so much of his work; watching Hoffman onscreen, one feels as though they are experiencing the life of someone they know, or at least understand. He stayed away from being known as “that guy,” the actor you saw frequently but whose name you could never recall. Instead, Hoffman was the Guy, the rare – yes, iconic – performer who could make us feel everything, from fear to comfort, joy to ferocity. He will be loved, missed, and always remembered.
*(Cover Image by Gabriel Bouys/Agence France-Presse – Getty Images)
