We almost forgot about him till he was found dead in his Manhattan apartment with a hypodermic needle still stuck in his arm, and ironically, he was one of the greatest actors that lived. Philip Seymour Hoffman was so great that he stole the scene from the greatest stars in two minutes of celluloid. But he was the champion of losers. He played outcasts and underdogs, and he made us love those fractured, tormented characters who broke our hearts. That’s why we don’t remember him. He lived those roles and disappeared into them. But it’s not his versatility, his hilarity, it’s not even his humility that made him great. It’s the pain that went into his work. He said that acting was so difficult for him, that it was absolutely torturous to be great at it. “You know the circus performer who spins the plates in the air you know, and he’ll spin six or seven plates in the air?” he said once to a journalist, “Acting sometimes is kind of that guy spinning all those plates in the air but in your head and in your body.

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