And here’s a punch directly into the soft part of my soul. The Wall Street Journal is reporting the shitty, shitty, terrible, sad news that Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead in his Manhattan apartment at around 11:30 this morning. The Chief Medical Examiner is currently looking into his cause of death, but confirms that a friend found him in his West Village apartment. He was 46. And now we’re all seriously fucking sad, because he was one of the best.
TMZ and The New York Post are both saying that he died of an apparent overdose. Last year, PSH, who had been sober for 23 years, spent 10 days in rehab to detox from a heroin addiction. WSJ reporter Pervaiz Shallwani says that PSH was alone in his apartment and was found by writer David Katz who had been working with him on a project. Other reports are saying that PSH was found with a needle in his arm, but nothing’s been confirmed by the NYPD.
PSH is survived by his partner Mimi O’Donnell and their three young children.
This is just thirty tons of sad on thirty tons of sad on thirty tons of sad. Cancel the Super Bowl! But don’t cancel the Puppy Bowl, because we definitely need that today. This is just the worst. PSH was the best in everything from Doubt to Capote to Happiness to The Big Lebowski to The Master to Punch-Drunk Love to Flawless to ordering peanut butter and Penthouse in Magnolia. But my favorite of all PSH performances is his performance in Boogie Nights. Nobody wore a 70s tank top like him.
Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman.