Hoffman redefines his defining role

Character actors, from Dustin Hoffman to Steve Buscemi, provide what the name suggests: content instead of classic good looks, narrative drive instead of loving camera shots. In great movies they shine. In lesser efforts their filmic Midas touch takes B material that would be better off decaying in a vault and gives us a reason to put the popcorn in the microwave. We love character actors because we know exactly what we are going to get. We're so familiar with the well-rehearsed charm that they provide comfort in otherwise painful films.

MICHAEL ETTANNANI/YH Phillip Seymour Hoffman speaks to students outside WLH.

Though the phenomenon of the character actor has remained fairly consistent from the days of the studio system until the present, a new type of character actor is currently emerging, one that refuses to be stereotyped by the idiosyncrasies that initially made him famous. Like a caged animal, the actor is restless, refusing to play to expectations based on prior performances and choosing instead to be an agent of surprise.

At the forefront of this new wave of acting is Philip Seymour Hoffman, who recently packed an auditorium for his Thurs., Sept. 28 Master's Tea. Hoffman has become quietly popular by repeatedly reminding us that someone can be the leading emotional center of gravity in a film without being the leading man. Hoffman captures the lyricism in characters that we might not expect to value, whether he's playing an emotionally stunted cameraman who cannot fathom that love isn't always reciprocal (in Boogie Nights) or a writer whose cynicism and paranoia have isolated him to the point where he's haunted by his loneliness (in Almost Famous).

Hoffman is so versatile that he can only be described as film clay, molded to easily and brilliantly fit into any dramatic situation. He never seems out of place, he's always aware of the emotional architecture of the film, and he does everything he can to support and beatify that dramatic structure.

Even during the Master's Tea, Hoffman seemed dressed for the part. Draped in wrinkled khaki, sporting a shapeless hat, unshaven, he looked like a student showing up five minutes late for a lecture having just pulled an all-nighter. And although his rambling responses to the questions were laced with expletives and sometimes awkwardly strained anecdotes, he always seemed to achieve his goal.

Certain points stood out. Hoffman regards acting as an art of the highest order, and seemingly thinks of himself as a refugee of the ham-handed, money-obsessed Hollywood movie market (perhaps that's why he goes out of his way to defy classic Hollywood acting conventions). As he told stories about his reaction to rejection early his career, I saw a man so obsessed with analysis, both of himself and of his craft, that I realized he was so able to capture human ethos because he'd examined his own soul so extensively. Without going to the Actor's Studio he absorbed its lessons; perhaps it was only when he began to fathom the depths of his own neuroses that he truly became a brilliant actor.

Regardless of how he does it, Hoffman consistently taps into emotional wells that American actors have unsuccessfully tried to access for years. He channels an intensity and emotional energy that are usually reserved for great stage performances into film; like a theater performer, Hoffman seems to be performing without the emotional safety net that is normally provided by a camera. It's unlikely that he will become a major Hollywood star, but it's also clear that he's content with mastering his role—not as yesterday's character actor, but as today's character artist.

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