Canada’s biggest emo rapper is furious about being misquoted, and also having his cover stolen out from under him by a dead man.
Those mourners who didn’t make it to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s funeral last week can pay their respects on First Avenue. Read More
Note: I originally published on TheFix.com in January 2012 under a pseudonym. Since that time, there’s been a surge on Fentanyl-related deaths, with the unfortunate demise of Philip Seymour Hoffman this weekend putting the deadly narcotic in the spotlight. I originally wrote this essay to tell my story, now I’m sharing it as a public service: Fentanyl is a drug that isn’t just relegated to people in poor, urban areas, and the next life it takes could be a family member’s, a friend’s, or your own.
Here’s a good tip for what not to do after graduating from college if you don’t want to get addicted to opioids: do not go on Craigslist’s “For Sale” section and search for “pain.”
Honestly, you just graduated from college, why are you trying to buy more pain? You can’t afford the pain you are in already, because you don’t have health insurance and also because you are in $40,000 of debt. What are you, some kind of masochist?
Also, don’t search for “pain” in Craigslist’s seller section (feel free to search for it on Missed Connections), because you might end up buying pharmaceutical grade heroin from a quadriplegic at Coney Island (true story).
Philip Seymour Hoffman was the quintessential New York actor.
He embodied everything we value: international success, of course, but also a cerebral approach to his craft that was rooted in art and learning rather than Hollywood glamour.
He was also our neighbor.
A man resting his paunch against the bar at Automatic Slims, enjoying a cheeseburger and soda dinner, as he did just this Saturday, the night before he died.
Academy Award winner Philip Seymour Hoffman, 46, was found dead in a New York apartment earlier today, reports The New York Times. Mr. Hoffman, who had appeared in such films as Todd Solondz’s Happiness, Capote, The Master, Magnolia, The Savages and Synecdoche, New York, was also known for his dramatic stage work, notably splitting time in the lead roles for Sam Shepard’s True West with John C. Reilly, and appearing in a 2012 Broadway adaptation of Death of a Salesman.
The 85th Academy Awards
Philip Seymour Hoffman, the Oscar-winning star of Capote, recently revealed that he has spent the past year spiraling out of a prescription drug habit and into a week-long heroin snorting binge. That Mr. Hoffman, whose iconic voice and posture has been imitated by many, also disclosed (to TMZ.com) that he had struggled with drug issues in the past and had fallen off the wagon after 23 years clean only serves to make the amount of time the actor spent in detox more confusing.
Update: Well, now we have an extra hour and a half of the red carpet! Talk amongst yourselves!
What is it about the Academy Awards? Intellectually, it’s hard to muster up that much enthusiasm about who “wore it best” (Ang Lee) or how modest Katniss will be in her acceptance speech, hopefully avoiding a First Wives’ Club reference that sounded like she was hating on Meryl Streep this time. And yet … we still feel compelled to watch. Maybe it’s because secretly, deep down, we still find it fascinating that the guy who does the voice of Stewie looks like the host of a reality game show about finding true love by having a dance-off on a stripper pole.
Or maybe it’s because we’re just suckers, who deep down believe that Beasts of the Southern Wild might still possibly have a chance against Argo or Lincoln.
Come join us, will you, on this the most magical of evenings for producers, people who are married to movie stars, and dress designers? We’ll be hosting a live chat below. Just click the big countdown button and you’re all set. Got it?
Tonight is the 85th Academy Awards, and for all intents and purposes it should be a good one. Look at all those serious films, and the one movie by Quentin Tarantino! And with big snubs for Best Director for both Argo and Zero Dark Thirty, does that mean one of them will be be sweeping up the Best Picture Award as a consolation prize? And most importantly, is it too late to write in a ballot for Javier Bardem in Skyfall? Because he was great.
In A Late Quartet, a somber, moody and uneven film about chamber music and the dedicated professional musicians who devote their lives to playing it, Christopher Walken takes some getting used to as a renowned cellist with Parkinson’s disease who is forced begrudgingly to end his career as leader of one of the world’s most celebrated string quartets. A far cry from the lurid and sloppy addicts, psychopaths and serial killers he usually plays as though walking in his sleep, it’s not the kind of role I would personally think of as perfect casting for him. Also, the movie is too slow, highbrow and sophisticated to draw the youth market that loves to see Mr. Walken play violent and stoned in trash like Seven Psychopaths. But playing the cello is such a pleasant change of pace that he eventually grows on you, scene by scene, proving for the first time since his role as Leonardo DiCaprio’s troubled father 10 years ago in Catch Me If You Can, that he really can act. He—along with the rest of the elegant cast—keeps A Late Quartet in tune when it threatens to go flat.
I never cease to be amused by the pile of unmitigated crap that gets shoveled off onto the moviegoing public by pretentious critics. They’re at it again with The Master, a load of film-festival tripe that was booed in Venice and greeted with massive walkouts in Toronto but is now being defended in an organized rescue mission that hopes to develop a minor cult following in New York before the whole thing mercifully vanishes in a puff of twaddle. With an embarrassing, overwrought performance by the dependably creeped-out Joaquin Phoenix that has to be the most hysterically misguided overacting since Dennis Hopper played Napoleon and Harpo Marx played Sir Isaac Newton in The Story of Mankind, I’m tempted to call it the worst thing I have seen this year, but there are two more coming up—Terrence Malick’s dystopic To the Wonder and a diabolically demented time-travel farce called Cloud Atlas—that are even worse. I will also refrain from labeling The Master “the worst movie I’ve ever seen!” because like the proverbial boy who cried wolf, I’ve blurted that cry of despair so many times, who would believe me?It might not even be the worst movie ever made, depending on how you feel about such hollow, juvenile and superficial trash as I ♥ Huckabees, Brewster McCloud, Punch-Drunk Love, Mulholland Drive, The Royal Tenenbaums, Lost Highway, Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses and … well, as they said in Hollywood during the McCarthy witch hunts, “the list goes on.”