He was only 46. He had battled significant personal demons his whole life. He got clean and sober early in his career, but relapsed just recently. He’d been called the greatest actor of his generation and yet few outside true film fans would be hard pressed to list a major mainstream accomplishment of his. Instead, Philip Seymour Hoffman stands as an example of excellence marred by a maddening vice, a habit which cost him his life and his legions of admirers future appreciation. From his earliest moments onscreen (as, for example, the boarding school student ratting out his classmates only to confront a blind and batshit Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman), he was an actor of enormous depth. Even when it looked like he was playing the heavy, he found the lightness and the lift in each and every turn. So when we read of the tragic details of his death, the less than dignified manner in which he died, it seems to suggest someone else, not this luminary we came to love onscreen.