thoughts on Philip Seymour Hoffman
July 30th, 2009
Philip Seymour Hoffman is working in the same building I’m working in, and he’s even on my floor. When I first saw him, he was walking through the kitchen, and I was heading to the elevators and I almost didn’t notice him until we walked past each other. Even then I kind of thought he might just be some guy who sort of looks like Philip Seymour Hoffman. Right after I passed him, I instinctively spun around to follow him and see if it was really him. I was even able to look up in the air and snap my fingers as though I’d just remembered something I forgot. That way, if anyone was watching me they wouldn’t think I was strange for suddenly spinning around to follow Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
From behind I was pretty convinced that it was indeed Philip Seymour Hoffman. He seemed to move like I thought he would, and he was wearing big old baggy shorts like I figured Philip Seymour Hoffman would wear. Then later I mentioned it to the producer I’m working with and she confirmed that yes, he was in the building.
When I was leaving work yesterday I joked to my producer that Phillip Seymour Hoffman and I were going out to get drinks, and that he only drinks ginger ale, and that I told him that was fine but I also admonished him "not to go all weird on me." For some reason this cracks me up, the image of me telling Philip Seymour Hoffman not to get all weird.
I imagined if I ran into him again I would tell him how much I appreciated his work when I saw him and John C. Reilly off Broadway in Sam Shepard’s "True West" back in 2000. Appeal to the actor in him, and reference a fairly obscure work. But then I remembered reading this thing about celebrities and how all they want is for people not to come up to them and say things.
Then today as I was heading out to the elevator to get lunch he was sitting at a table in the kitchen with some other folks, talking to them. One woman was sitting across from him with a look on her face that had a beautific quality to it, as though everything he said was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard. I wanted to get closer, so I pretended to get something out of the fridge. I walked over to it, couldn’t hear what he was saying, but heard his very distinctive, low voice. I opened the fridge door and then pretended that they didn’t have what I wanted and sort of closed the door with a look of disappointment on my face. I walked back to my edit room.
Once inside the room, I experimented with imitating Philip Seymour Hoffman’s voice, but I don’t think I did a very good job of it. I had him saying things like "What the fuck?!" and "I’m Philip Seymour Hoffman."
I left my room and headed out for lunch again. I had an empty seltzer can in my room and I figured I’d drop it in the recycling on my way to the elevators. As I rounded the corner, there was Philip Seymour Hoffman, also heading for the can recycling. He threw his in, and I tossed mine; they almost collided. I continued towards the elevators and I was pretty sure he was right behind me, but I couldn’t turn back and look. My sensitivity to this progressed to such a state that I couldn’t even hold the door open for him. I walked through and sort of pushed it wide, so that perhaps he could sneak through without having to open the door. But I timed it poorly and the door swung back fast, almost to smash him in the face.
I pushed the elevator call button, and then there we were, just the two of us. I faced him, ended up looking him in the eye. He was in baggy shorts again, and a plain white t-shirt that was wrinkled and a little too small for him. His arms seemed too short. His hair looked like serious bedhead and he had a patchy beard of stubble.
"Hey," he said.
"Hello," I replied.
And then for some reason I had to look away. I looked out the window at the sky, at the people walking down below. Sometimes I use this time to check if it’s raining, if I need to go back and get my umbrella, and I pretended that this was what I was doing. Today though this didn’t make a lick of sense; the sky was a brilliant blue.
The elevator came, the doors opened. It was fairly full and Philip Seymour Hoffman and I had to squeeze in. We were in each other’s space. I could see that he had a cigarette in his hand. I figure this is a sign of a serious smoker, that he’s not waiting until he gets outside to get the cigarette out, he wants to be as efficient as possible, to minimize his time before he’s smoking. Get it out now and get it ready.
In the elevator there is this horrible small tv screen that plays stock quotes and news capsules and weather. I hate the thing. I’ve fantasized about making stickers that are the exact size of the screen that say "stop watching this" and sticking them on the screens when I come in in the morning. But I figure they’d get me on cc tv and I’d be busted. The screen is particularly annoying in the morning first thing, so I’ve taken to riding the freight elevator up.
What’s particularly galling is that this small tv takes time to play little "channel id’s" and it’s known as the "Captivate Network". In other words, they KNOW that you’ve got nothing to do in the elevator, so you might as well get some advertising beamed into your brain. Even more galling (!!!) is that at the bottom of the screen is a little graphic that never goes away that says "you’re watching the captivate network." Fuck you, Captivate Network.
The elevator is really quite cramped, and I’m close enough to Philip Seymour Hoffman that it feels a little tense, a least to me, and yet for some reason Philip Seymour Hoffman is desperate to watch the Captivate Network. He kind of leans over awkwardly, having to get even more into my space so he can see the screen. And he looks at it, blank-eyed and slack-jawed. Basically a poster child for why I hate the Captivate Network.
And now he’s so close that I can smell him, actually smell what he smells like. This is weird. "Don’t get weird on me, Philip Seymour Hoffman," I think. He smelled odd but familiar, the phrase that popped into my head was that he smelled like "an old dad." Sweat and cigarettes and old white undershirt and human-ness.
And I think about this science-y thing I read at some point about smells, about how scents are actual molecules of the thing you’re smelling that are coming off of it and into your nose. Actual physical parts of that thing that trigger your nose and brain in some way that it reads like a scent, but it’s these molecules. I am actually inhaling microscopic pieces of Philip Seymour Hoffman. Everyone in the elevator is. In some weird way part of him is going in me, becoming me. I wonder if he can smell me. He must be able to.
He gets out of the elevator first and I am right behind him. But even with this small lag time between us, by the time I get outside he’s already smoking.
*****
(in NYC in 2000, in front of the poster for True West, I impersonate Philip Seymour Hoffman, Mike H impersonates John C. Reilly – image courtesy our good friends at balgavy.com)
