Several years ago there was a quiet and enjoyable movie called Sweet Land that saw a small release. I lived in Brentwood at the time, working at an agency that repped one of the
actors. There was a screening arranged in Beverly Hills, and I’d been invited to it by the actor.
The screening was arranged and presented by Philip Seymour Hoffman, who was a fan of the movie.
When my friend and I arrived at the building, we had to take the elevator up out of the parking garage. We barely made it into the elevator as the door was closing, someone inside not holding the door for us. He was a scruffy man in a Winter cap and coat with black hair peeking out from under the hat.
It was clear he was trying to ride up alone, but we made it to the elevator anyway.
As we rode up to the first floor I finally realized who the man was: Philip Seymour Hoffman.
I didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out “Mr. Hoffman!” and pointed at him.
He nodded, “Yep,” and kept his eyes on the doors. They opened and he went straight for the theater to introduce the movie.
My friend laughed her ass off and made fun of me for it long after, and looking back I could’ve either said nothing at all, or something more meaningful. But, really, there’s nothing more to say about a person so talented and gifted other than his name.
Mr. Hoffman, you will be missed.