Goodbye, Mr. P.Ho

MANILA, Philippines - The first time I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman on a screen and in a movie, it was in the early ‘90s, in Scent of a Woman. He was unforgettable as the guy who kept referring to Chris O’Donnell as “Chaz,” even if his name was “Charlie.” He was so unlikable that I loved the fact that I hated him so much.

Sometime in late 2003, in my second year of post-graduate film school at Columbia University, our teachers announced to us that Hoffman was going to teach a class called Directing the Actor, that there were 12 spots available (and 72 film students vying for them), and that there would be a “lottery” process, so it would be “fair.” When I saw the class list, I realized that this was all a ruse: each acting professor actually chose his or her three favorite students, and these people made up the sought-after class. Thankfully, my teacher, Lenore DeKoven, allowed me to be one of the kids with the Golden Ticket. Our Chocolate Factory was the small studio in Dodge Hall, once a week, from 2 to 5 p.m.

 I don’t remember our first class. I just remember Professor Hoffman looking exactly as he does when he’s off a set and out of character: fine, wispy, straw-colored hair that needed a haircut; pale, freckled skin; droopy eyes with straw-colored eyelashes, and that deep, soothing voice that was always mumbling.

He usually came to class in faded T-shirts, shorts, sandals, with the occasional bag of McDonald’s, and he would sip his Supersized soda between sentences. We dubbed him “P.Ho” and managed not to call him this to his face, until I slipped during our last class. (He didn’t mind.) He wasn’t doing a film at the time, he was working on something with his theater company, LAByrinth.

 For our first assignment, he asked us to bring in one scene from each of our most recent short films, so he could get to know our styles. Everyone had just come from a summer spent shooting our first-year final projects — short films, eight to 12 minutes long — and we were in the midst of editing them. We spent the next week watching each other’s work, with a tube TV and a mini-DV player.

I showed him the opening scene from Quezon City, which stars Jeffrey “Epy” Quizon and Julia Clarete. It was a carefully choreographed breakfast scene between what you think is a typical married couple who engage in a little rough and tumble before work. But when the wife mentions kids mid-makeout, the heat dissipates, and the husband goes off to his job. The second half of the scene was a sequence shot, with the camera invading the couple’s intimacy as they seduce one another. The shot lasts until Epy leaves, and Julia is left alone in the house.

P.Ho paused the video, then asked me, “Why do you decide to cut there, not earlier?”

I replied, “I liked the look on Julia’s face.” He said, “What did you tell your actor to do at this moment?” I answered, “Nothing. The scene was supposed to end when the guy leaves the house.” He smiled and said, “No wonder. There was a generic-ness to her performance during that time.” He told me to cut the scene earlier, saying that both my actors were good, and then he wrapped up the class.

P.Ho and I were the last two out of the room. I was standing in the doorway, and he was still inside when he said, “Hey.” (I doubt he knew my name.) I turned around. He said, “Great job,” brow furrowed. He meant it. And then I couldn’t contain myself. I immediately leaped into the hair with a fist-pump-jump. Right in front of him. It was embarrassing for me, but at least it made him laugh.

Our next assignment was to choose a scene to present to class, with us as directors and using professional actors. With our previous Directing the Actor classes, we were required to use existing plays or scripts, but P.Ho was different. He asked us to bring in anything we wanted — from original material we were working on, to a book or even comic book adaptations. I decided to do the scene from my favorite novel, J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, where Franny has a meltdown in front of her boyfriend Lane during a date. I found actors I liked from my classmates’ short films, and rehearsed with them for two weeks in my tiny apartment.

In class, whenever a rehearsal would end, we would say, “Scene.” Then P.Ho would ask the same question: “What would you do to make this scene better?” We would give our actors some notes or tweaks, and then he would add his ideas to make the scene better. And 100 percent of the time, when he would tweak the scenes, actors who I found so-so suddenly became brilliant. Dialogue that I found trite suddenly became poignant.

When it was my turn to present, I thought my actors did very well and looked the part. My scene was fine; it wasn’t bad; but it also wasn’t exemplary. Suddenly, he made one note to the actor playing Lane, who opens the scene with a monologue about getting an “A” on his paper. I had instructed the actor to brag, and he did, in a Chris O’Donnell sort of way. P.Ho said that, in real life, when people boast about something, they actually hide the fact that they are bragging. They toss out the information, as if they don’t care about it at all, even if it means the world to them. When we did the scene again, the actor followed his direction and the scene transformed. Suddenly, the exchange became hilarious, my classmates were in stitches, and the beauty of Salinger’s words came out. He gave a simple note, but it had a snowball effect on the actors’ performances. It made me see my shortcomings with my interpretations of text, of characters, and of their moment-to-moment actions.

The last story I will share is my favorite. My classmate decided to present a scene from Closer, the scene where Anna tells Larry she is having an affair and it ends with him grilling her about her lover, Larry: “You like him (ejaculating) on your face?” Anna: “Yes!” Larry: “What does it taste like??” Anna: “It tastes like you, only sweeter!!” When her actors were done screaming at each other against the wall, telenovela-style, my classmate exclaimed, “Scene!” and then proceeded to give herself and her actors a standing ovation. She was the only one in the room standing, and we all looked at one another, amused. P.Ho spoke: “What would you do to make this scene better?” She answered proudly, “Nothing! It was perfect! We rehearsed this for two weeks and the actors did everything the way I directed them to.” He then looked at her actors and asked, “Do you think that that was the best performance you could have done? Or do you think you can do something better?” Both actors looked at one other and said, “Uh, yeah, I think I can do better than that…” Then P.Ho suddenly bellowed, “NOTHING IS EVER PERFECT! YOU CAN ALWAYS DO BETTER!” In our stupefied silence, we could hear the echoes of this pronouncement bouncing off the walls. Everyone in class sat there, mouths agape. After he gave the actors notes and they played out the scene again (in a non-melodramatic style that was light years better), he called for a five-minute cigarette break. Then he went over to my classmate, hugged her, and apologized for yelling.

I can talk for hours about his anecdotes, describing how he tackled his characters in Scent of a Woman, Flawless and Punch-Drunk Love. I am thankful that I took down detailed notes during his class, and that notebook is in a closet in my bedroom in Manila. My classmates who quit smoking all took up the habit once again just so they could spend an extra few minutes with him outside Dodge Hall, puffing away on the steps. That’s how cool and down to earth he was.

When we had our last class, I was kicking myself because I had forgotten to bring my Boogie Nights box set with me, which I wanted him to sign. I don’t remember what I mumbled to him as a goodbye. (I have a vague notion I mentioned something about his performance in Happiness.) What I do remember was getting a hug from him, and it was one of the softest bosoms I have had the pleasure of embracing.

It seems to be true that the best people are the first to leave this planet. The gory details of his passing don’t mean anything to me. What matters is that he taught me how to respect characters and communicate with actors. He taught me that actors love performing for directors who are fans of the performance and who get wrapped up in the world of their own films, just like PT Anderson does. And in that tiny room, we — 12 future directors — all dreamed to someday make him proud with all the films that we’d make.