Monday, February 3, 2014

PSH

The thing about Philip Seymour Hoffman dying with a needle in his arm is that it's pathetic... but it's the weirdly perfect ending for a man who showed us the light side of the dark.

I'm devastated that he died. It has a lot to do with selfish reasons. Because I'll never see him in any more great roles (except for The Hunger Games, but that's not the same). I'll never get to see the way the character fills up his whole body, his lungs, mouth, hair, feet, hands. I'll never get lost in a new character he brings to life with such grace that even the most repugnant person is likable and relatable and a true reflection of what it is to human.

And I'll never get a chance to work with him. To be intimidated by his greatness, to learn. Not that if he continued to live for a hundred years, I'd ever get the chance to work him, anyway... or even meet him. Just the thought that now it will absolutely never happen is depressing.

And then I think about the needle in his arm. Of course he used drugs. Of course. Is it possible to be that good-- to be able to bring likability to terrible people-- without having your own demons? I'm worried that I will never be as good as he was-- at anything-- because I don't have enough demons. (Even if I did, could I use them to create?)

I guess I just hope that at the end he knew how much his performances meant, how he made it easier to love people because he reminded us that even the most demon-riddled of us are human.

Bravo, PSH.