Philip Seymour Hoffman’s New York
Today would have been Philip Seymour Hoffman’s 49th birthday. He passed in 2014. Here’s this thing I wrote a while ago, then forgot about.
I remember seeing the trailer for Synecdoche, New York thinking, I have to see this movie. Soon to be applying to film school, I found myself newly drawn to the indies and oddballs of the video store shelf (or, er, the iTunes store), and with that dive into a typical teenager’s cultural unknown came a myriad of chances to discover new thinkers, artists, and inspirations for myself. And finding Philip Seymour Hoffman was like stumbling upon gold.
Beyond anticipation of Synecdoche’s release, my main reaction to the trailer was that Philip Seymour Hoffman was automatically one of my favorite actors ever. Sure, I was always eager to find new favorites, but the further I delved into his work, the more I knew his ranking in my mind was justified by far. This was the same guy that introduced the phrase “sharting” into my household in Along Came Polly, and here he was turning in one of the most dramatic and complex performances I had ever seen. Actually seeing the movie — and, later, The Savages, Jack Goes Boating, Moneyball, The Master — confirmed his talent and impactfulness to me. When I moved to Greenwich Village for college, I was pretty psyched anytime I passed a celebrity on the street. But I really only wanted to run into Hoffman. I had heard that he was one of those most frequently seen around town, as he lived in the area, but I never saw him. Finally, a few months after I had moved out, in October 2013, I was in the city and passed him on West 8th & 6th. And it was cool. And that was that. I’ve always been a bit interested in celebrity.
I’ve also always been interested in the history of specific locations in New York City. I lived near the house that John Belushi was living in when he died; where, the next day, Dan Aykroyd went to inform Belushi’s wife of his passing. I thought about it every time I passed the building on my walk home, but my reflections amounted more to a weighted version of that interest in celebrity stories than it did to actual sorrow. It’s hard to grasp the concept of death when it’s someone you don’t know; let alone someone who, as a celebrity, you have a hard time even considering human.
On February 2nd, less than four months after my great brush with the celebrity that was Philip Seymour Hoffman, I heard the sad news that he died. I felt sad, and angry, and like the whole world was robbed of something big in an instant. I had always reacted to celebrity deaths with more interest in the story than sadness in the passing, simply because the gravity of such situations was too distant for me to grasp. But with Hoffman (and later that year, Robin Williams), my fandom and an obvious sense of tragedy prompted within me a more genuine and direct reaction.
I was also familiar with the much-publicized streets and establishments around which he spent his final days, later recounted step-by-step and published by major news organizations. And every time one of those places was mentioned, I felt the need to go see it. This was partially fueled by the sorrow I felt, but it was also always driven by that interest in celebrity, and by that interest in the history of places I’ve been.
So when I found myself in the city a few days later with some time to kill before meeting a friend, I took a quick subway ride down to my old neighborhood, from where all those news outlets had been reporting and broadcasting since that gray Sunday. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Even in the moments during my quasi-walking-tour of this tragic fragment of history, I wasn’t sure.
I walked along the streets of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s New York. Of course, the only streets the media was talking about were the relevant ones: the bad ones. The ones where his last hours played out in solitude while the city around him remained unaware of the somber and dangerous reality he was living.
I passed his Bethune Street apartment, where he died. It felt impossible to understand the true depths of the despair and horror of his passing. The crowds of reporters, mourners, and onlookers that had consistently assembled on both sides of the block in the days prior had since dissipated, and as I stood alone across the street, the candles and flowers and photographs left on the sidewalk out front only made me feel ignorant and naive and like I didn’t belong there.
I passed the place that CNN reported he went to for an espresso on his final morning, Chocolate Bar. It felt odd to know that a person who once stood there was now no longer standing anywhere.
I passed Automatic Slim’s, a restaurant he frequented, and where he ate the night before he died. It felt like I was suddenly getting a glimpse of the fact that he was a real person. It was also heavy and tragic, as I had read at the time that he often drank there after relapsing on his abstinence from alcohol, which turned out not to be true, but that feeling abounds nonetheless.
I passed the D’Agostino grocery store where he was rumored to have withdrew money in the company of drug dealers on that horrible night. It felt dark and even more tragic. I felt bad for being there.
I passed the apartment of his family that the media had been so lowly camping outside of for days just to get a glimpse of the mourners — news broadcasting trucks were still there, generators roaring in the otherwise quiet of the cold winter night. I wondered if I was any better. It was uncomfortable to know there was a grieving family up there, perpetually stuck in the center of what had become a news spectacle akin to the worst of gossip rags.
I passed the tail-end of a candlelight vigil being held outside of the Bank Street Theater, which housed the LAByrinth Theater Company, once led by Hoffman and now led by the mother of his children. It felt once again more real, seeing real people there mourning; so much so that I thought it would be wrong for me to be a part of it. Candles flickered, tentatively planted in a garden. Many of them were probably left there by people who actually knew the beloved local personally. So I kept walking, down along West Street, back toward where I came from. I ultimately turned around, deciding to see the seemingly solacing vigil up close, but in the past two minutes the last of the stragglers had left. The candles were already being cleaned up. The whole thing felt ugly. It was unsettling to know that the streets I carelessly walked down regularly were also the tremendously troubled world of someone else. It was the same world. And yet, worlds different. In a sense, murkiness and tragedy weighed heavy upon these places for him. For me, the privileges of naivety and innocence. I didn’t like knowing that these streets were part of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s New York.
Maybe what I expected in all this was a clearer feeling. A deeper reaction. A more recognizable sorrow within me, because, subconsciously, all that sadness and anger I was feeling was marred by confusion and that persistent failure to grasp a distant death. But it just felt weird. And, to a larger degree, so tragically real. I didn’t feel more grief; just less naivety. And I felt even more angry — now not just at the robbery of his life from the world, but of the current state of his memory in that world. I hoped he wouldn’t be remembered for the ugliness of his last moments. I hoped the mental footnotes of all the places I just passed would fade in people’s minds, and my own; that they could once again be everyday locations, and not markers of dark and random memories. And I hoped that Hoffman would be memorialized for what he was. For what, as his legacy lives on, he still is:
Philip Seymour Hoffman is one of America’s greatest actors. He’s a key ambassador for the craft, as there are few people who took it as seriously or passionately as he did. His respect for the art encouraged the same from others. His unquestionably permanent towering presence in the annals of the form serves as a reassurance that the artistic side of the industry is valuable and cool. He’s one of the most important individuals that artistic culture will ever have. He’s, as his New York Times obituary described him, “perhaps the most ambitious and widely admired American actor of his generation.” Through many of his roles, he’s a model for underdogs. Through his own self, he’s a model for those seeking the achievement of their dreams and artistic truth. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s an icon of art, creativity, passion, exploration, and great depth. He’s a symbol of triumphing over struggle. He’s an embodiment of the best of the city, so he shouldn’t be embodied by its worst. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s New York.
