On Philip Seymour Hoffman, 1967-2014

I’ve been dreading writing about the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman all day — not because I couldn’t figure out what to say, but because words seem so insufficient at a time like this, even ones that are heartfelt and well-intentioned. How does anyone adequately summarize such a prolific and powerful career, such a complex talent, such a life that ended so early and so sadly?

Hoffman died Sunday in his Manhattan apartment of an apparent drug overdose. He was only 46 years old but already he’d carved out a rich and diverse filmography. A scene-stealing character actor who transformed himself into a formidable leading man, his instincts and and presence never wavered. Doughy, rumpled and scruffy, with a ruddy complexion and wild tuft of blonde hair, he was the furthest thing from a matinee idol, yet he was mesmerizing to watch. He reveled in playing oddballs and outcasts, creeps and freaks — the unattractive and the unlovable. And yet, he always made these characters fascinating; rather than recoil, we’d want to know more about these people because he infused them with such recognizable humanity, with a loneliness that hits close to home.

It’s impossible to pick a single favorite performance of Hoffman’s. Try it. Can’t be done. They were all great in some way — daring, thrilling, often dark but full of surprises. His was a name you’d always be happy to see in the opening titles of a film because you never knew what you’d get, but you knew it would be filled with inspired, unexpected choices. Even in a forgettable romantic comedy like “Along Came Polly,” for example, the one thing you probably remember is Hoffman’s trash-talking, pickup basketball-playing former child star.

The major roles stand out, certainly. His deeply immersive, Oscar-winning turn as Truman Capote in “Capote.” The popular but accused Catholic priest in “Doubt.” His profane, force-of-nature CIA operative in “Charlie Wilson’s War.” And perhaps his greatest work of all: the Scientology-inspired cult leader of Paul Thomas Anderson’s ‘The Master,” which he played with a ferocious mixture of charisma and animalistic impulse.

But then there were all the performances before, after and in between; taken as a whole, they reveal a dizzying range but a consistent ability to dig deep with fierce commitment and precise technique to become absolutely anybody, believably. A phrase like “greatest actor of his generation” doesn’t sound like hyperbole here.

The first time he leapt out at me was in the role that so many of us recall as the first one that mattered: as lovesick porn crew member Scotty J. in “Boogie Nights” for Anderson, with whom he worked so frequently and memorably. The vulnerability and embarrassment at being rejected by Mark Wahlberg’s Dirk Diggler was so raw, it made you uncomfortable as a viewer, and yet your heart broke for him.

There was the prissy, obsequious Brandt in “The Big Lebowski” (strong men also cry, indeed), the preening Freddie Miles in “The Talented Mr. Ripley” (in which Hoffman damn near stole the whole film away from A-listers Matt Damon, Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow and Cate Blanchett) and the kindly, supportive nurse Phil Parma in Anderson’s epic “Magnolia.” The world-weary but idealistic rock critic Lester Bangs in “Almost Famous,” the sad-sack English teacher Jacob Elinsky in Spike Lee’s brilliant “25th Hour,” a rumpled college professor opposite a high-strung Laura Linney in “The Savages.” He absolutely tore it up as a veteran, no-nonsense campaign manager in “The Ides of March” but also registered palpable frustration in just a few scenes as Oakland A’s manager Art Howe in “Moneyball.” Admittedly, I didn’t love “Synecdoche, New York,” but its intertwining of art and death seems so much more poignant now. And he was both hilarious and frightening as gamesmaker Plutarch Heavensbee in “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire,” wielding that deep, rich voice of his like a weapon. If 12-year-old girls now know the name Philip Seymour Hoffman because of his rare involvement in this big-budget sequel, the world is a better place.

It’s so telling that the reaction to Hoffman’s death on places like Twitter and Facebook has gone beyond shock and sadness to devastation — a deep, emotional feeling of loss. Of course, none of us knew him, but we’ve all felt moved or provoked or dazzled by his performances, and the wide swath of people reacting to his death speaks to his versatility and the depth of his talent.

I actually had the pleasure of meeting Hoffman once, briefly, in a setting that seemed inordinately jubilant compared to the dark, meaty work on which he’d made his name. It was 2005, and Hoffman was a contestant on a brief-lived TV game show called “Celebrity Charades.” Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe, who were still married then, had amassed a bunch of their friends in a Manhattan loft — including Hoffman, Bob Balaban, Stanley Tucci, Bebe Neuwirth and Jill Clayburgh — to play charades for their favorite charities. It was a high-energy, high-pressure situation, with serious stars running around acting like crazy people for a good cause.

“You think you’re gonna goof off,” I quoted Hoffman as saying back then, “but then you get in the middle of it and it gets really competitive and it immediately just becomes fun — because everyone gets so surprised at how seriously they start to take it.”

It was impossible to do anything but take Hoffman seriously whenever we saw him on screen. He demanded it of us, and he earned it. Every time.