Skip to main content

Philip Seymour Hoffman

 Ten years after Philip Seymour Hoffman's death, there are several performances that stay with me: "Talented Mr. Ripley," "Moneyball," "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead," "Capote," "Magnolia," "Doubt."


But my own favorite is "The Savages." I think of this as a spiritual sequel to "You Can Count on Me." 

In "YCC on Me," Laura Linney is the responsible sibling; in "The Savages," she is the one who can't grow up. She has to fly to Buffalo to deal with her senile dad; this guy was abusive, in his golden era, and now he is beyond reach. Linney believes that if she makes the right moves, she might somehow achieve "closure" with her father. Old wounds will be healed. Of course, she is wrong, and her anger keeps rearing its head in surprising ways. She requires the "elder care" residents to watch "Daddy's favorite film," which has substantial interludes of "blackface." She becomes enraged when a certain pillow disappears--and she makes wild accusations, among the nurses.

Philip Seymour Hoffman has the less showy role; he is the cerebral, allegedly grounded sibling. But--actually--he is a mess in his own way. He glosses over his rage with pseudo-intellectual lingo--but this only goes so far. In one scene I love, his sister asks to "upgrade" the father--to a better nursing home--and PSH loses his mind. He says there are no "nice nursing homes." He goes on: "People die, and it's gruesome and filthy. Inside those walls....it's a fucking horror show. It's rot, and piss, and shit." He is lecturing his sister--but, really, he is lecturing himself; a part of him is just as childish and inarticulate as the Little Baby in the Family.

Because life is what it is, the big Eugene O'Neill speech is interrupted; a friendly cleaning person passes by. PSH doesn't overplay the comedy; he makes you feel like you're observing actual life, all the way through the final scene.

I'm away next week so my schedule might be erratic. Here's the clip I admire.....

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more