I had all these updates to post about over the weekend, but the horrid tragic death of Philip Seymour Hoffman on Sunday, accompanied by the news that Ron and Hermione apparently need couple’s therapy and J.K. regrets pairing them together kind of sent me into an existential crisis. #fangirlproblems
So what I’m going to do now is write a dedicatory post to Philip, and afterwards play catch up with all the other events and thoughts of the past few days.
Philip Seymour Hoffman had this voice that didn’t enter your consciousness through your ears – it permeated your skin and changed the temperature of your blood before you even computed the words that came out of his mouth.
I remember the first time I became conscious of PSH. It was Mission Impossible III. I watched the movie, and something about it lingered. It wasn’t the action, nice cars, and definitely couldn’t have been Tom Cruise. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Something in that film had excited me, changed my world view, altered my life forever. This is not typical for action movies, so what was different about this film? Finally I watched it again, and my answer was immediate. It was that bass voice that shook my soul, those slate hard eyes that dissected your mind from your brain, your soul from your heart, and your blood from your body. I looked him up: Philip Seymour Hoffman. The actor with more power than any actor I’d ever seen, and may ever see. It was in fact, Philip’s character in Mission Impossible that made me begin to think about writing films rather than novels.
Every time I saw him in another film, the same lingering chill came away with me. So many times I didn’t even realize it was him again. He wasn’t one of those actors – the ones where through the entire movie you’re thinking “Oh, Julia Roberts” or “Oh, George Clooney.” He was invisible, and only the character would come through in his performance. I bitterly regret not making an opportunity to see him perform live.
Being the die hard Hunger Games fan that I am, when I saw Philip in the Catching Fire trailer for the first time, I screamed aloud. Depite my fangirling of Katniss and Peeta, PSH was the reason I needed to see that movie opening night. I am unspeakably grateful I will still have the pleasure of watching his genius posthumously in both parts of Mockingjay.
As I write this, I am listening to Cory Monteith singing on repeat: will we ever have our happy ending? I am horrified when amazing, gifted talents die too suddenly from drugs. If I ever get the chance to make a change, even if it’s just in the entertainment industry, pertaining to drugs, I will do everything I can possibly imagine to make that change. We can’t keep affording losses of the magnitude of Philip Seymour Hoffman. RIP.