Today was unusual, since I didn’t turn on my computer until after
two o’clock in the afternoon. I started to go through the usual motions,
checking my e-mail and such, but when I went onto Facebook, I was startled to
see at the top of my feed an IMDb headline that read: “Philip Seymour Hoffman
Found Dead in New York”.
My
first thought was, Wait – that’s not the Philip Seymour Hoffman. Not the
talented, electrifying thespian who I first witnessed in Bennett Miller’s
feature-length film debut Capote and
then in such diverse fare as Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia, last year’s Catching
Fire and even Mike Nichols’s recent Broadway revival of Death of a Salesman. It couldn’t
possibly be him. But a glance at the article’s blurb, which contained the words
“Oscar-winning actor”, quickly confirmed what my brain couldn’t (or wouldn’t) register.
Hoffman, who just yesterday I noticed was gearing up for his sophomore directorial
effort with the Jake
Gyllenhaal and Amy Adams-starring Prohibition-era drama Ezekiel Moss, had died.
I
jumped over to Twitter, both because I needed to say something and because some part of me was still in denial, still hoping that this
would turn out to be some cruel, elaborate hoax. Of course, it wasn’t. My
timeline was overflowing with reactions that felt simultaneously predictable
and heartfelt – expressions of disbelief
and sorrow,
condolences, links to obituaries
and clips,
praise
for an
actor who so consistently lit up the screen with memorable,
dynamic performances that towards the end, it was almost easy to take him
for granted. I thought about a line from 2012’s The Master, penned by director Paul Thomas Anderson and spoken by
Hoffman with his signature gravitas: “If you figure out a way to live without a
master, any master, be sure to let the rest of us know, for you would be the
first in the history of the world.” And I cried.
Maybe
it’s selfish to talk about someone’s death in terms of how it affected me.
After all, I had never met, much less talked to or gotten to know, him.
Celebrities die, as do millions of people around the world every day, most of
who are mourned and remembered only by a select few. It’s not difficult to get
jaded by the barrage of commemorative articles that inevitably greet the
passing of a public figure, sentimental dirges that often repeat the same
superlatives and inspirational quotes over and over again, reducing their
subjects to unknowable saints.
But if
there’s one thing I realized during the past several hours, it’s this: death is
an intensely personal thing, even when it involves a person you’ve only
experienced as a carefully cultivated persona. That’s why formal obituaries, no
matter how eloquently written they may be, never carry the same power as a
spur-of-the-moment tweet. You may wonder why people care so much, why
newspapers put so much effort into commemorating actors, who get paid to play dress-up and are notoriously
less-than-virtuous in their real lives, while doctors and soldiers and teachers
and so many other individuals that work hard to actively improve society and
take risks on a daily basis are forgotten. You can be sure that dozens of
assholes will point that fact out every time another movie star dies and the
Internet undergoes a collective breakdown (luckily, I’m pretty good at avoiding
the trolls, but I know they’re out there, lurking…).
As
superficial as it may be, though, and as much as I may mistrust our culture’s
obsession with fame and hero worship, I don’t think lamenting celebrity deaths
is stupid. First of all, I suppose news like today’s is a harsh reminder that
these people, no matter how distinguished and larger-than-life they sometimes
appear, are still human, full of flaws and frailties like the rest of us. And
just like you and me, they won’t be around forever.
Yet more importantly, the
outpouring of dismay, grief, nostalgia and even anger that flooded my Twitter
feed this afternoon made me think about how essential art is. They may not be
all-important, but movies, music, books and other forms of pop culture are indispensable
parts of modern society – and, for some people, their identity. When I watch a
particularly good film, it feels as though I’m connected to something real, as
though I’m discovering a dimension of existence that I had never before
experienced. The best actors are the ones that seem to be speaking to you – and
only you – through the screen. They make you feel like you are getting to know them, like they’re revealing a deeper truth within
themselves, a profound, intimate secret that they would never dare to
acknowledge or show when inhabiting their real selves. Maybe that’s delusional,
and I’m just projecting my own thoughts and feelings onto images on a screen,
but as a shy, self-conscious loner, I sometimes feel like I understand an actor
better than anyone I’ve ever actually met. It’s cathartic, a comfort, and it
lasts.
I
could go on, but I think this tweet says it best, so I’ll just leave you here. Rest
in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. It was a pleasure having you in our lives.
Uncool.
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