Ovih dana Politika“, najbolji list na Balkanu koji je ikada postojao“, kako u svome uvodniku piše glavna urednica, obeležava sto i deset godina izlaženja. Piše u uvodniku slavljeničke Politike: “Novine koje držite u rukama glasilo su pristojne Srbije i po njima se, evo stotinu i deset godina, meri vreme u Srbiji… Politika je kroz istoriju bila i moderna i liberalna i tradicionalna, ali je uvek i iznad svega bila rodoljubiva, ukratko: prava nacionalna institucija.“ A predsednik Srbije u autorskom tekstu zaključuje: “Politika prkosno traje deleći usud svoga naroda“. Uz ove izjave, preko pedeset uglednih ličnosti iz javnog života, političari, umetnici, sportisti, ali i deca urednika i saradnika Politike puni su hvale za sve ono što se tokom tih sto i deset godina moglo u Politici pročitati, od ozbiljnih do humorističkih tekstova, od tekstova nobelovaca do stripa o Paji Patku. Saznajemo kako su veliki srpski umovi kao i narodne mase odrastali uz Politiku, iz nje učili i formirali se kao ličnosti.

Nigde nijedne reči kritike ili samokritike. A nije baš sve bilo tako sjajno. Ono što je Politika, taj porodični, tradicionalni i nacionalni dragulj, predstavljala od početka do kraja devedesetih, najniži je pad novinarske profesije, ne samo na Balkanu nego i mnogo šire.

Dovoljno je samo prisetiti se sramotnih devedesetih, “Odjeka i reagovanja“, otrovnog, mučnog govora mržnje, te dopisničkih priloga koji su kršili sve norme profesionalnog kodeksa. Politika je prestala da bude novina, pretvorila se u običan propagandni bilten jedne porodice i jedne političke partije. Da li je to bio glas “pristojne Srbije“? Moderne, liberalne, tradicionalne? Ne, to je bio glas političkog taloga, dubokog moralnog pada, ružno lice Politike, “lista pristojnih ljudi“.

Zajedno sa Informativnim programom Radio-televizije Beograd, Politika je devedesetih godina postala simbol, medijska tvrđava tvrdokornog i surovog Miloševićevog režima.

Dodajem nekoliko rečenica sopstvenog iskustva sa tadašnjom Politikom. Petnaestak dana posle ubistva Slavka Ćuruvije zbog lažnih optužbi da je tražio bombardovanje Srbije, oglasio se dopisnik Politike iz Rima Dragoš Kalajić, miljenik Mire Marković, publicista koji se dičio time da je pristalica Musolinijevog fašizma. „Obaveštava“ javnost kako u Srbiji postoje „idioti koji navode pametne bombe“, takozvani lokatori koji šalju NATO bombarderima precizne podatke o metama za gađanje. Ovakva monstruozna, sumanuta optužba, bila je osveta onima koji su kritikovali Miloševićev režim. Kao „lokatori“ poimence su spomenuti ugledni pravnik Vojin Dimitrijević, dramska spisateljica Biljana Srbljanović i potpisnik ovih redova. Ogavna i besprimerna izmišljotina, predstavljala je otvoren poziv na linč objavljen na čitavoj strani Politike. Do dana današnjeg iz Politike nije stiglo nikakvo izvinjenje za takve i slične gnusne tekstove koji su bili sastavni deo uređivačke koncepcije, kojom se direktno atakovalo na živote političkih neistomišljenika. Takvo novinarstvo može se jedino nazvati vrhuncem beščašća u profesiji.

O tome nema ni reči u svečanom izdanju Politike, a trebalo bi. Da se ne ponovi.

Filip David, Koliko vredi ljudski zivot, Danas, 8. februar

Ovo kako Amfilohije oslikava crkve nije neko crnogorsko pitanje već i naše srpsko, jer Crna Gora ne može bez Srbije i Srblja bez Crne Gore, a obe nezavisne države ne mogu bez crkve kao političkog faktora. Na Amfilohijevim freskama su ktitori-darodavci i to je u redu, to je slikarski kanon, ali darodavac je i država Crna Gora sa milionima za hram u Podgorici. I sada, na freskama su u raju oni koji su dali para, a oni što su manje dali su u paklu. U paklu je predsednik Narodne skupštine Crne Gore uz Marksa i Engelsa, sa Titom i ateistima-komunistima. Nije toga bilo u crkvama ni pod Titom da ga slikaju u paklu, nigde u svetu. Ne, SPC je bila slobodna i to je bilo zagarantovano Ustavom i zakonima. Sada dolazi na red najteže pitanje za našu struku i za nas lično. Je li to u redu – pitaju nas iz Frankfurta i negde iz Londona – da ateisti budu u paklu jer su bili komunisti i bezbožnici – ne, nije u redu jer svi komunisti nisu bili ateisti. Bili smo dečaci i nismo se rastajali od romana Ignacija Silonea koji je bio član Kominterne i sedeo s Lenjinom, a istovremeno je bio i ostao hrišćanin vernik i još član Direkcije Komunističke partije Italije i sedeo s P. Toljatijem i borio se. Borio se protiv Musolinija s puškom u ruci – nema se kome to ovde objašnjavati. Ovo što Amfilohije radi, to je povratak sistema indulgencija koji se sastojao u tome da koliko platiš toliko ćeš biti u raju i gresi su ti oprošteni. Ovo što Amfilohije radi je biznis s indulgencijama – na kasicama koje su nosili popovi u ono vreme pisalo je na latinskom i nemačkom: „Kada ovaj novčić zazveči u kasici, tvoji će gresi biti oprošteni“. Godine 1487. objavljen je cenovnik za oprost grehova s podužim naslovom koji ćemo navesti u celini, jer se radi o istorijskom dokumentu: Praxis et taxe officianae poenitentiae papalis. Pravi pravcati cenovnik. To su indulgencije ili oproštajnice, kako u našem jeziku se to kaže.

Mirko Djordjevic, 8. feb

You are hardcore, you make me hard.
You name the drama and I’ll play the part.
It seems I saw you in some teenage wet dream.
I like your get up if you know what I mean.
I want it bad. I want it now.
Oh can’t you see I’m ready now.
I’ve seen all the pictures,
I’ve studied them forever.
I wanna make a movie so let’s star in it together.
Don’t make a move ’til I say, “Action.”
Oh, here comes the Hardcore life.
                                                                                                     .
Put your money where your mouth is tonight.
Leave your make-up on & I’ll leave on the light.
Come over here babe & talk in the mic. Oh yeah I hear you now.
It’s gonna be one hell of a night.
You can’t be a spectator. Oh no.
You got to take these dreams & make them whole.
Oh this is Hardcore –
there is no way back for you.
Oh this is Hardcore –
this is me on top of you &
I can’t believe that it took me this long. That it took me this long.
                                                                                                                           .

This is the eye of the storm.
It’s what men in stained raincoats pay for but in here it is pure.
Yeah. This is the end of the line.
I’ve seen the storyline played out so many times before.
Oh that goes in there.
Then that goes in there.
Then that goes in there.
Then that goes in there. & then it’s over. Oh, what a hell of a show
but what I want to know:
what exactly do you do for an encore? ‘Cos this is Hardcore.

                                                                                                                .
Jarvis Cocker, this is hardcore

Kako nastaju revolucije? Od Tukidida preko Marksa naovamo, pametni ljudi su tvrdili da do njih dolazi usled nekakvog nezadovoljstva i nekakve materijalne bede običnog čoveka. Neki drugi pametni ljudi, poput Tokvila, tvrdili su da je njihov uzrok u pojavi novih, revolucionarnih ideja među građanstvom. I neku verziju ove priče su usvojili i laici – do pobuna dolazi zbog manjka novca u novčaniku ili zbog viška ideja u glavi.

Beda izaziva revolt, a mase ustaju protiv ugnjetača kada ugnjetavanje postane nepodnošljivo. Ili kada ih radikalne ideje ubede u to da je postalo nepodnošljivo. Zvuči razumno, zar ne? Zapravo, ne naročito. Jer beda, siromaštvo i ugnjetavanje postoje od kada je sveta, čoveka i veka – a pobune i revolucije su veoma retke. Isto je i sa radikalnim idejama o boljem svetu, npr. među religijskim pokretima. I one su tu skoro oduvek, pa se opet mnogi femkaju da prvi bace kamen – u prozor nekog ministarstva, recimo. Na primer, ideje o demokratskom uređenju su postojale i među starim Grcima i Rimljanima, ali su postale revolucionarne tek par milenijuma kasnije.

Zbog tih teorijskih problema, 1970-ih godina dolazi do svojevrsne revolucije u poimanju revolucija među društvenim naučnicima. Teda Skočpol, američka sociološkinja sa Harvarda, tada objavljuje knjigu “Države i društvene revolucije” (1979) i tvrdi da je sve ono što smo šatro znali o revolucijama pogrešno. Nije poenta ni u bedi potlačenih klasa, ni u novim radikalnim idejama koje omamljuju narod. Uzroci revolucija su političke prirode i tiču se karaktera države. Pre nego što ovaj stav otpišemo kao otkriće tople vode, valja pogledati u detalje njenog argumenta. Na osnovu minuciozne analize revolucija u Francuskoj (1789), Kini (1911) i Rusiji (1917), ona tvrdi da do revolucije dolazi kada se država suoči sa nizom nepremostivih teškoća. Ove teškoće mogu biti bankrot državne kase ili poraz u ratu i neka druga slična nezgodacija. Tada se, naime, dešava jedna veoma zanimljiva stvar: dolazi do političkog sukoba između državne vlasti i klase dominantnih, odnosno najbogatijih ili najmoćnijih. Klasna boranija i njihov bunt su tu nebitni. I dolaze na samom kraju.

Dakle, bez spavanja na času molim, važno je. Redosled poteza je sledeći: prvo, država ima neki finansijski problem, poput zjapeće rupe u budžetu. Drugo, šta će i kuda će, država pokušava da pokrene neke reforme. Treće, ove reforme najviše pogađaju interese dominantne klase, tj. onih koji imaju najviše novca, privilegija i ugleda. Četvrto, oni su ti koji se bune, ali to ne čine jeftino, Molotovljevim koktelom – već opstrukcijama, korupcijom, dovođenjem svojih ljudi u ministarske fotelje i slično. Peto, rezultat je gradualno zaustavljanje, zamrzavanje ili paraliza svake državne aktivnosti, uključujući tu i održanje nekakvog reda i poretka. Šesto, tada se otvara prostor za nezadovoljstvo siromašnih i za njihovo izlivanje na ulicu. I tek tada potlačeni jurišaju na Bastilju ili na Zimski dvorac. Ali pravi, strukturni uzrok masovnih pobuna leži u sukobu dominantne klase sa državnim aparatom. To jest, u slaboj vlasti i isuviše jakim vandržavnim moćnicima. U većini država u poslednjih par vekova ti moćnici su bili krupni zemljoposednici. I oni su ti koji svom carstvu uzvraćaju udarac. Dakle, zbog institucionalno traljavog i birokratski nerazvijenog državnog aparata Francuske, Kine i Rusije, krupni zemljoposednici su mogli da opstruiraju odluke svojih vlasti. Rezultat je bila opšta politička kriza i zatim dezintegracija čitave državne i vojne mašinerije. Uzgred, teorija Tede Skočpol je svedočanstvo o tome koliko mnogo toga sociolozi mogu da objasne, samo ako pobliže i ozbiljno pogledaju u istoriju, a ne samo u anketu istraživanja javnog mnjenja.

Čemu ovaj poduži ekskurs iz sociologije revolucija? Jer ga je u ilustrativnom obrazloženju svoje ostavke već opisao eksministar privrede Saša Radulović. I došli smo do tačke četiri iz prošlog pasusa dok grabimo ka petoj. Uz to, on sam je tipični predstavnik (dela) vlasti koja razume neophodnost reformi pred problemima, kao i pojedinac čiji interesi tu nisu ugroženi. A ono što je u svom saopštenju opisao je školski primer opstrukcije reformi od strane moćnika čiji interesi jesu. Kao i primer sukoba te moćne, dominantne klase sa državnim aparatom (u ovom slučaju, komada jedan: Radulović Saša), u kojem pobeđuju oni koji su moćni, potčinjavajući državni aparat samima sebi i svojim interesima. Teda Skočpol bi bila ponosna i neko bi mogao da joj dojavi ceo slučaj. Sam sadržaj Radulovićevih zaustavljenih reformi je ovde (naj)manje bitan, čak i da je predlagao savez sa kapitalističkim Satanom lično i namakanje sindikalnih vođa u vrelo ulje pre spuštanja u fritezu.

Suština je u tome da je prvi čovek državnog aparata osujećen, tj. sistematski sprečavan u svojim naumima. Kao i u strukturnom karakteru ove države i društva u kojima se, kako piše Radulović, “zaobilaze institucije”, “na Vladi ništa ne diskutuje”, “odustaje od reformi”, sve to “uz puno poverenje u arapska, kineska, ruska, beloruska i druga čuda”. Za Tedu Skočpol je sve to primer politički krizne situacije pre društvene revolucije. Ono što čekamo je i definitivna državna paraliza, pa da nezadovoljni krenu na ulicu. Za sada smo još uvek u fazi trajne političke krize usled sukoba između upravljačke klase i dominantne klase u društvu. Samo što je kao taj “sukobljeni” usamljen ostao jedino ministar privrede, dok se onaj drugi i veći deo upravljača odavno slizao sa bogatima i moćnima. Glavno pitanje, u ovoj vladi i gomili vlada unazad, zapravo je: ko vlada državom? Amalgam političke i ekonomski dominantne klase koji štiti sopstvene interese. Jer su stvari u društvu strukturno naopako poslagane.

Sad, pošto u pitanju nije istorija već sadašnjost, privredno dominantnu klasu ovde ne čine krupni zemljoposednici (iako i takvih ne manjka), već tajkuni i, pre svega, državno-privredni funkcioneri. Na ovo upućuju i sami nosioci tihe pobune koju opisuje vanpartijac Radulović. Odnosno, činjenica da je do ključnog kočenja reformi došlo nakon najave ukidanja subvencija za gubitaška preduzeća koja su u flertu sa partijskom državom (njih 153). Posebno je zanimljiv i način na koji je dolazilo do te opstrukcije: “bez ikakve procedure, bez javnosti i bez ekonomske analize”, van institucija i na neformalnim sastancima. Dakle, skoro potpuni paralelizam sa situacijom u Francuskoj, Rusiji ili Kini pre opšteg revolucionarnog haosa je upravo u karakteru tih država i ovog državčeta kao institucionalno traljavog. Reč je o društvima u kojima je centralna vlast slaba i koja nije u mogućnosti da slomi otpor nezadovoljnih moćnika nad kojima bi trebalo da vlada. Zato su otpori Raduloviću dolazili i iznutra, iz same Vlade. Ovo su države sa nikakvom birokratijom i političko-rođačkim prožimanjem bogatih i vlasti, kao na primeru Vršačkih vinograda iz Radulovićevog podužeg sastava. I zato u takvim državama malobrojni reformatori po pravilu stradavaju ili bivaju najureni.

Kada je državna administracija u Kini pod dinastijom Manču zakuvala reforme, pokušala da modernizuje zemlju i da iskontroliše agrarne viškove jer joj je trebalo novca za budžet, došlo je do otpora krupnih zemljoposednika koji proglašavaju nezavisnost od centralne vlasti i izazivaju vojne sukobe. Opšti haos su iskoristile razne republikanske, ali i nacionalističke grupacije i izvele revoluciju. I poslednji kineski car je najuren otprilike kao u onom Bertolučijevom filmu, a haos i građanski ratovi su trajali sve do pobede komunista 1949. godine. A šta to onda sve znači? Da li nas čeka revolucija? Sačekajmo, prvo izbori.

Aleksej Kisjuhas, Reforme i revolucije, Danas, 1. februar

The last time I thought about taking heroin was yesterday. I had received “an inconvenient truth” from a beautiful woman. It wasn’t about climate change – I’m not that ecologically switched on – she told me she was pregnant and it wasn’t mine.

I had to take immediate action. I put Morrissey on in my car as an external conduit for the surging melancholy, and as I wound my way through the neurotic Hollywood hills, the narrow lanes and tight bends were a material echo of the synaptic tangle where my thoughts stalled and jammed.

Morrissey, as ever, conducted a symphony, within and without and the tidal misery burgeoned. I am becoming possessed. The part of me that experienced the negative data, the self, is becoming overwhelmed, I can no longer see where I end and the pain begins. So now I have a choice.

I cannot accurately convey to you the efficiency of heroin in neutralising pain. It transforms a tight, white fist into a gentle, brown wave. From my first inhalation 15 years ago, it fumigated my private hell and lay me down in its hazy pastures and a bathroom floor in Hackney embraced me like a womb.

This shadow is darkly cast on the retina of my soul and whenever I am dislodged from comfort my focus falls there.

It is 10 years since I used drugs or drank alcohol and my life has improved immeasurably. I have a job, a house, a cat, good friendships and generally a bright outlook.

The price of this is constant vigilance because the disease of addiction is not rational. Recently for the purposes of a documentary on this subject I reviewed some footage of myself smoking heroin that my friend had shot as part of a typically exhibitionist attempt of mine to get clean.

.

I sit wasted and slumped with an unacceptable haircut against a wall in another Hackney flat (Hackney is starting to seem like part of the problem) inhaling fizzy, black snakes of smack off a scrap of crumpled foil. When I saw the tape a month or so ago, what is surprising is that my reaction is not one of gratitude for the positive changes I’ve experienced but envy at witnessing an earlier version of myself unencumbered by the burden of abstinence. I sat in a suite at the Savoy hotel, in privilege, resenting the woeful ratbag I once was, who, for all his problems, had drugs. That is obviously irrational.

The mentality and behaviour of drug addicts and alcoholics is wholly irrational until you understand that they are completely powerless over their addiction and unless they have structured help they have no hope.

This is the reason I have started a fund within Comic Relief, Give It Up. I want to raise awareness of, and money for, abstinence-based recovery. It was Kevin Cahill’s idea, he is the bloke who runs Comic Relief. He called me when he read an article I wrote after Amy Winehouse died. Her death had a powerful impact on me I suppose because it was such an obvious shock, like watching someone for hours through a telescope, seeing them advance towards you, fist extended with the intention of punching you in the face. Even though I saw it coming, it still hurt when it eventually hit me.

What was so painful about Amy’s death is that I know that there is something I could have done. I could have passed on to her the solution that was freely given to me. Don’t pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. It sounds so simple. It actually is simple but it isn’t easy: it requires incredible support and fastidious structuring. Not to mention that the whole infrastructure of abstinence based recovery is shrouded in necessary secrecy. There are support fellowships that are easy to find and open to anyone who needs them but they eschew promotion of any kind in order to preserve the purity of their purpose, which is for people with alcoholism and addiction to help one another stay clean and sober.

Without these fellowships I would take drugs. Because, even now, the condition persists. Drugs and alcohol are not my problem, reality is my problem, drugs and alcohol are my solution.

If this seems odd to you it is because you are not an alcoholic or a drug addict. You are likely one of the 90% of people who can drink and use drugs safely. I have friends who can smoke weed, swill gin, even do crack and then merrily get on with their lives. For me, this is not an option. I will relinquish all else to ride that buzz to oblivion. Even if it began as a timid glass of chardonnay on a ponce’s yacht, it would end with me necking the bottle, swimming to shore and sprinting to Bethnal Green in search of a crack house. I look to drugs and booze to fill up a hole in me; unchecked, the call of the wild is too strong. I still survey streets for signs of the subterranean escapes that used to provide my sanctuary. I still eye the shuffling subclass of junkies and dealers, invisibly gliding between doorways through the gutters. I see that dereliction can survive in opulence; the abundantly wealthy with destitution in their stare.

Spurred by Amy’s death, I’ve tried to salvage unwilling victims from the mayhem of the internal storm and I am always, always, just pulled inside myself. I have a friend so beautiful, so haunted by talent that you can barely look away from her, whose smile is such a treasure that I have often squandered my sanity for a moment in its glow. Her story is so galling that no one would condemn her for her dependency on illegal anesthesia, but now, even though her life is trying to turn around despite her, even though she has genuine opportunities for a new start, the gutter will not release its prey. The gutter is within. It is frustrating to watch. It is frustrating to love someone with this disease.

A friend of mine’s brother cannot stop drinking. He gets a few months of sobriety and his inner beauty, with the obstacles of his horrible drunken behaviour pushed aside by the presence of a programme, begins to radiate. His family bask relieved, in the joy of their returned loved one, his life gathers momentum but then he somehow forgets the price of this freedom, returns to his old way of thinking, picks up a drink and Mr Hyde is back in the saddle. Once more his brother’s face is gaunt and hopeless. His family blame themselves and wonder what they could have done differently, racking their minds for a perfect sentiment; wrapped up in the perfect sentence, a magic bullet to sear right through the toxic fortress that has incarcerated the person they love and restore them to sanity. The fact is, though, that they can’t, the sufferer must, of course, be a willing participant in their own recovery. They must not pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. Just don’t pick up, that’s all.

It is difficult to feel sympathy for these people. It is difficult to regard some bawdy drunk and see them as sick and powerless. It is difficult to suffer the selfishness of a drug addict who will lie to you and steal from you and forgive them and offer them help. Can there be any other disease that renders its victims so unappealing? Would Great Ormond Street be so attractive a cause if its beds were riddled with obnoxious little criminals that had “brought it on themselves”?

Peter Hitchens is a vocal adversary of mine on this matter. He sees this condition as a matter of choice and the culprits as criminals who should go to prison. I know how he feels. I bet I have to deal with a lot more drug addicts than he does, let’s face it. I share my brain with one, and I can tell you firsthand, they are total fucking wankers. Where I differ from Peter is in my belief that if you regard alcoholics and drug addicts not as bad people but as sick people then we can help them to get better. By we, I mean other people who have the same problem but have found a way to live drug-and-alcohol-free lives. Guided by principles and traditions a programme has been founded that has worked miracles in millions of lives. Not just the alcoholics and addicts themselves but their families, their friends and of course society as a whole.

What we want to do with Give It Up is popularise a compassionate perception of drunks and addicts, and provide funding for places at treatment centres where they can get clean using these principles. Then, once they are drug-and-alcohol-free, to make sure they retain contact with the support that is available to keep them clean. I know that as you read this you either identify with it yourself or are reminded of someone who you love who cannot exercise control over substances. I want you to know that the help that was available to me, the help upon which my recovery still depends is available.

I wound down the hill in an alien land, Morrissey chanted lonely mantras, the pain quickly accumulated incalculably, and I began to weave the familiar tapestry that tells an old, old story. I think of places I could score. Off Santa Monica there’s a homeless man who I know uses gear. I could find him, buy him a bag if he takes me to score.

I leave him on the corner, a couple of rocks, a couple of $20 bags pressed into my sweaty palm. I get home, I pull out the foil, neatly torn. I break the bottom off a Martell miniature. I have cigarettes, using makes me need fags. I make a pipe for the rocks with the bottle. I lay a strip of foil on the counter to chase the brown. I pause to reflect and regret that I don’t know how to fix, only smoke, feeling inferior even in the manner of my using. I see the foil scorch. I hear the crackle from which crack gets it’s name. I feel the plastic fog hit the back of my yawning throat. Eyes up. Back relaxing, the bottle drops and the greedy bliss eats my pain. There is no girl, there is no tomorrow, there is nothing but the bilious kiss of the greedy bliss.

Even as I spin this beautifully dreaded web, I am reaching for my phone. I call someone: not a doctor or a sage, not a mystic or a physician, just a bloke like me, another alcoholic, who I know knows how I feel. The phone rings and I half hope he’ll just let it ring out. It’s 4am in London. He’s asleep, he can’t hear the phone, he won’t pick up. I indicate left, heading to Santa Monica. The ringing stops, then the dry mouthed nocturnal mumble: “Hello. You all right mate?”

He picks up.

And for another day, thank God, I don’t have to.

Russell Brand: My life without drugs, the Guardian

Bilo je to devedesete. Radila sam na Radio Rijeci kao urednica satiričke emisije “S primorske poneštrice”. U onom sistemu moja ekipa i ja znali smo žestoko zajebavati “komunjare” i zazivati propast trulog sistema. U Rijeci smo bili slušani onako kako je danas “Nedjeljom u dva” gledano. A onda se rodila hrvatska demokracija.

Žrtve onog sistema na čijoj smo mi strani bili dok je postojao onaj sistem u meni su prepoznale nekoga tko je svim srcem i dušom njihov. Zato me jednog jutra pozvalo u kavanu na Korzu, pokojnu “Učku”. S jedne strane stola kavu sam pila ja, s druge jedan pop i poznati riječki dječji kirurg.

Ponuđeno mi je da biram što ću raditi u budućoj jedinoj nam Hrvatskoj. Mogla sam ostati u Rijeci ili otići u Zagreb pa tamo sebi izabrati fotelju. Odbila sam i u idućoj emisiji Tuđmana proglasila zločincem, najavila krvavi rat u kome će izginuti sirotinja, narugala se Crkvi i himni… I dobila otkaz. U siječnju devedeset i prve.

Dok sam dobivala otkaz, Tončiju Vrdoljaku trebalo je neko vrijeme da prelomi, kolege nisu htjele sjediti u redakciji pored mene, znanci su, kad bi me na cesti vidjeli, bježali na drugu stranu, a kći, do tada vrlo dobra učenica, dobivala je jedinice jer joj mater “ima crvenu knjižicu”. Izraz njene učiteljice hrvatskog jezika.

Neznanci bi me ponekad pljunuli na Korzu. Tužila sam Hrvatski radio, nakon sedamnaest mjeseci vratilo me na posao. Status mi se nije popravio. Kolege su i dalje od mene bježale, glas mi se nije smio čuti, morala sam svakodnevno odlaziti na višesatne sastanke širokoga spektra a onda o tome napisati tri rečenice koje će pročitati spiker.

Nakon mjesec dana ponudili su mi pet tisuća maraka i papir na kome sam morala potpisati da dragovoljno odlazim i da nemam prema firmi “nikakvih potraživanja”. Da mi nisu dali one marke otišla bih bez maraka, oni to nisu znali. Bila sam dobra glumica, imala sam odlične živce, smijala sam se u redakciji kao da me do orgazma dovodi svaki susret sa kolegicama i kolegama koji su se veselili kad bi dobili smrznutu kuglu mlijeka kao dodatak plaći. Sjećam se da sam ja svoju kuglu odbila i da mi je mlađi kolega na tome bio beskrajno zahvalan.

Znam da oni koji su bili na Golom otoku od Hrvatske primaju neku lovu. Pare dobivaju i oni koje su mučili Srbi. Najebali smo jedino mi koje su devedesetih jebali Hrvati. Čudno. I nepravedno. Ako nisu heroji oni koji se bore protiv diktature, tko su heroji?

Službeno, ja sam obična ženska. Neslužbeno, ja sam turbo neobična ženska. Da sam onda onom popu i onom doktoru rekla DA moja bi se djeca vozila u ludim autima. Imala bi stanove i kuće. Ja bih živjela u dvorcu sa poslugom. Jednom godišnje milovala bih ćelave glave dječice oboljele od raka i govorila im kako su danas dobila psa a sutra će možda i lijekove. Pred izbore bih se fotošopirana kesila sa plakata. Nosila bih cipele od tisuću eura. Liječila se u inozemstvima. Muž bi mi bio vrhovni ili neki drugi sudac.

Pomislit ćete, mora da je fenomenalan osjećaj, pogledaš unazad… Rekla sam! Napisala sam! Govorila sam! Ljudi, bila sam pametna kad su svi bili glupi! Ja, hrvatski čudnovati kljunaš! Traj, la, la…LA! Svaka mi čast!

Nitko od ljudi koji me poznaju ne vjeruje mi da danas iz dubine srca žalim zbog svega što sam devedesete učinila. ŽALIM! Pizda mi materina. Znam, reći ćete da ja, za razliku od todorića koji imaju Hrvatsku, mirno spavam. Ja mirno spavam? Zato jer se nisam nakrala, zato jer glađu nisam umorila tisuće ljudi, zato jer nisam uništila budućnost hrvatske djece…

JEBEŠ MIRNO SPAVANJE! JEBEŠ! Noćas nisam oka sklopila! Pijem apaurine prije spavanja i poslije spavanja. Ja da mirno spavam? Todorići mirno spavaju. Njihovo hrkanje ubilo je moje snove, ubija moj san. Znam da će svi ti todorići jednoga dana crknuti u više ili manje strašnim mukama. Ni u crkavanju nismo jednaki. Dok oni budu crkavali znat će da su prije hropca živjeli. Oni i svi njihovi.

Dok ja budem crkavala gledat ću fotke svoga crkavanja prije crkavanja i vrištati užasnuta jer crkavaju prije crkavanja i moja djeca i moji unuci, crkavat će i praunuci ako ih bude bilo.

Ja sam devedesete bila živa i slijepa. Danas sam crkotina koja je progledala. JEBO MI PAS MATER

Vedrana Rudan, Heroina na apaurinu, Rudan.info

Philip Seymour Hoffman

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Philip Seymour Hoffman, who has died aged 46 of a suspected drugs overdose, had three names and 3,000 ways of expressing anxiety. He was a prolific and old-fashioned character actor, which is not a euphemism for “odd” – it means he could nail a part in one punch, summoning the richness of an entire life in the smallest gesture. And, yes, he could also look splendidly odd, with his windbeaten thatch of sandy hair, porcine eyes and a freckled face that would glow puce and glossy with rage. His acting style was immune to the temptations of caricature. His rise in the 1990s coincided with the emergence of a new wave of American film-makers, and his versatile, volatile talent became integral to some of the most original US cinema of the past 20 years.

He was also an accomplished stage actor and director whose notable achievements included a 2000 Broadway production of Sam Shepard’s True West, during which he and his co-star John C Reilly alternated parts, and co-founding Labyrinth, a non-profit theatre company. He made his debut as a film director with a 2010 adaptation of Bob Glaudini’s play Jack Goes Boating, in which he reprised his stage performance as the title character, a limousine driver edging tentatively toward romance.

It was for screen acting alone that Hoffman was best known. His speciality was the craven and the carbuncular. He could take the most pitiful souls – his CV was populated almost exclusively by snivelling wretches, insufferable prigs, braggarts and outright bullies – and imbue each of them with a wrenching humanity. The more pathetic or deluded the character, the greater Hoffman’s relish seemed in rescuing them from the realms of the merely monstrous. Not that it came easily. “It’s hard,” he said in 2012. “The job isn’t difficult. Doing it well is difficult.” He told this paper that “just because you like to do something doesn’t mean you have fun doing it; and I think that’s true about acting”.

From his first, minor supporting roles in the early 1990s, he proved the old saw that there are no small parts, only small actors – and he was small in neither sense of the word. Built like a truck, and as dishevelled as a trucker, he used his frame and his unkemptness with immense dexterity.

When he played sad-sacks riddled with self-loathing, such as the boom operator who squirms with unrequited love for a male colleague in Boogie Nights (1997), or an obscene phone-caller in Happiness (1998) who fails to make good on his threats when his bluff is called, he used his bulk to emphasise those characters’ rancid unease. But as the pompous Freddie in The Talented Mr Ripley (1999), he deployed his body as a blunt instrument, butting in where he was not welcome.

It was one of the tricks of Hoffman’s elegantly cruel performance that when Freddie met his bloody end, the audience was likely to feel relieved and complicit; he was such a doggedly discomfiting presence, it was clear he could be stilled only by death. “This actor is fearless,” said Meryl Streep of his work in the movie. “He’s given this awful character the respect he deserves, and made him fascinating.”

These were the parts that established Hoffman’s reputation. Boogie Nights was especially notable for cementing the actor’s collaboration with the writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson. That was his most fruitful creative partnership, spanning all but one of Anderson’s six films. They first worked together on the director’s debut, the thriller Hard Eight (1996).

After Boogie Nights, Anderson gave Hoffman a rare saintly role in the multi-character drama Magnolia (1999). It was one of the peculiarities of Hoffman’s skill that the more benevolent or affable his role, the more his natural idiosyncrasies seemed stymied. As a kindly nurse in Magnolia, or a naive screenwriter in David Mamet’s State and Main (2000), or a good-hearted drag queen helping a gruff cop (Robert De Niro) who has suffered a stroke in Flawless (1999), Hoffman seemed subdued, even thwarted. It was not that he could not play good guys; rather that he excelled at locating the virtues in the apparently vile.

Fortunately Anderson went on to cast him as the boss of a phone-sex line in Punch-Drunk Love (2002) and as the leader of a Scientology-like religion in The Master (2012). For their work on the latter picture, effectively an extended two-man face-off, Hoffman and his co-star Joaquin Phoenix shared the best actor prize at the Venice film festival.

Though he was nominated three times in the best supporting actor category at the Academy Awards (for Charlie Wilson’s War, Doubt and The Master), his one actual Oscar was for best actor for Capote (2005), in which he played the barbed, lisping wit during his In Cold Blood period.

Unlike Toby Jones, who was Capote in a rival movie, Infamous, Hoffman was not a natural physical fit for the part. His performance amounted therefore to an act of will equivalent to Anthony Hopkins playing Nixon. He bridged a similar chasm as Willy Loman, a character far older than him for the majority of the play’s action, in Mike Nichols’s 2012 Broadway revival of Death of a Salesman: he had first played the part aged 17 as a high school senior.

Hoffman was born in Fairport, New York, to Gordon Stowell Hoffman, a former executive at Xerox, and his wife, now Marilyn O’Connor, who worked as a civil rights activist, lawyer and family court judge. His parents divorced when Hoffman was nine, and he and his two sisters and one brother were raised by their mother. Though his initial aptitude was in sports, a neck injury put paid to his wrestling ambitions and he joined an acting group at her encouragement. He spent a summer at the Circle in the Square Theatre School and studied drama at the New York University Tisch School of the Arts. He graduated in 1989, but a spell in rehab to combat alcoholism and drug dependency preceded the start of his professional acting career. He made a further return to rehab in May last year.

Early opportunities to indulge his skill for making unctuousness compelling came in the roles of a school snitch in the Al Pacino vehicle Scent of a Woman (1992), for which Hoffman auditioned five times. That brought him to the attention of Anderson, who cast him as a gambler in Hard Eight. In no time, the secret was out that Hoffman was an actor who could bring colour and vitality to any film. He was one of a team of tornado-chasers in the blockbuster Twister (1996), produced by Steven Spielberg. And in only a handful of scenes he brought to ripe, repugnant life a sycophantic functionary in the Coen brothers’ caper The Big Lebowski (1998).

Suddenly Hoffman was everywhere. His name on the credits became a reliable indicator that, however poor the film, there would at least be an eccentric or abrasive component – a case in point being Patch Adams (1999), in which Hoffman provides some prickly relief from the picture’s ingratiating star, Robin Williams.

He had a film-stealing cameo as the music journalist Lester Bangs in Almost Famous (2000), played a forlorn widower in Love Liza, written by his brother Gordy, and gave a tender portrayal of a teacher excited by a student’s attentions in one of the sub-plots of Spike Lee’s 25th Hour (both 2002). Cold Mountain (2003), in which he had a small role as a disreputable preacher during the American civil war, was Hoffman’s second film with the British director Anthony Minghella (after The Talented Mr Ripley), while the Ben Stiller comedy Along Came Polly (2004) provided him with a rare digression into broad mainstream high jinks.

The success of Capote paved the way for bigger and more nuanced parts for Hoffman, his turn as the villain in Mission: Impossible III (2006) notwithstanding. He had a striking hat-trick in 2007: he was moving and funny as one of a pair of siblings caring for a parent with dementia in The Savages, and bullish in Charlie Wilson’s War as a cynical, overbearing CIA agent with a disturbing moustache. Best of all was his bestial turn as a conniving dunce who persuades his brother to join him in robbing their parents’ jewellery store in Sidney Lumet‘s oddly melancholy heist thriller Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead; Hoffman made sure we felt for the character through his every malevolent mis-step.

An adaptation of the Broadway hit Doubt (2008), in which he played a priest who may or may not have abused an altar boy, was a rather silly prestige project. As a flamboyant American DJ, the actor brought a little gravitas to Richard Curtis’s woeful comedy The Boat That Rocked (2009). He starred opposite George Clooney in the political thriller The Ides of March and with Brad Pitt in the acclaimed sports drama Moneyball (both 2011). Last year he was seen as a musician with marital problems in the drama A Late Quartet.

Having appeared in the second film in the lucrative Hunger Games series, Catching Fire (2013), he moved on to the third and fourth instalments, Mockingjay Part I and Part II; he was said to have almost completed his scenes at the time of his death. Arguably his towering accomplishment, though, is his performance in the 2008 oddity Synecdoche, New York, written and directed by Charlie Kaufman. Dominating the film, Hoffman plays a theatre director who uses a MacArthur grant to mount a detailed version of his own life, staged on a set of New York built to scale inside a colossal warehouse. Soon the project expands until there are warehouses within warehouses, populated by thousands of performers. A production first modelled on reality comes eventually to overwhelm and replace it. “When are we going to get an audience in here?” asks one of the actors. “It’s been 17 years.” But there is never going to be any audience. The mantra of Hoffman’s obsessive character, which he is still murmuring as he dies, is: “I know how to do this play now.”

Hoffman is survived by his partner, the costume designer Mimi O’Donnell; their three children, Cooper, Tallulah and Willa; Gordy and his sisters, Jill and Emily; and his parents.

• Philip Seymour Hoffman, actor, born 23 July 1967; died 2 February 2014

y, The Guardian, Monday 3 February 2014, Philip Seymour Hoffman obituary

Rastuća nejednakost sa sobom nosi očigledne ekonomske troškove: stagnantne plate uprkos porastu produktivnosti, porast duga zbog koga teže podnosimo finansijsku krizu. Podrazumeva i velike društvene i ljudske troškove. Postoje, na primer, snažni dokazi da visoka nejednakost dovodi do bolesnijeg stanovništva i povećane smrtnosti.

Ali to nije sve. Ekstremna nejednakost, kako se ispostavilo, stvara klasu ljudi koji su zastrašujuće odvojeni od stvarnosti – dok istovremeno ovim ljudima obezbeđuje veliku moć.

Primer o kome mnogi danas govore je milijarder i investitor Tom Perkins, jedan od osnivačaventure capital firme Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers. U pismu uredniku Wall Street Journala, g. Perkins je zakukao zbog javne kritike „jednog procenta“ – poredeći ovu kritiku sa nacističkim napadima na Jevreje i tvrdeći da polako idemo u drugu Kristalnu noć.

Možda ćete reći da se očigledno radi o nekom ludaku i zapitati se zašto bi Wall Street Journal objavio tako nešto. Ali gospodin Perkins nije baš neki izuzetak. Čak nije ni prvi među finansijskim magnatima koji je uporedio zagovornike progresivnog oporezivanja sa nacistima. Još 2010. Stiven Švarcman, predsednik i izvršni direktor Blackstone grupe, izjavio je da su predlozi za eliminisanje rupa u poreskom zakonu za menadžere hedž fondova i private-equity firmi slični „Hitlerovom napadu na Poljsku 1939“.

Tu su i mnogi drugi plutokrati koji uspevaju da zaobiđu Hitlera ali ipak imaju, i glasno izražavaju, političke i ekonomske stavove koji predstavljaju ravnomernu mešavinu paranoje i megalomanije.

Znam da to zvuči oštro. Ali pogledajte govore i članke „volstritera“ koji optužuju predsednika Obamu – koji nikada nije učinio ništa više od toga da glasno izrekne očigledno, to jest da su se neki bankari ponašali loše – da satanizuje i proganja bogate. I pogledajte kako mnogi od tih optuživača takođe iznose smehotresno samoljubivu tvrdnju da je njihova duševna bol (za razliku od, recimo, zaduženosti domaćinstava i prerane fiskalne štednje) glavni razlog zašto se privreda ne oporavlja.

Samo da budem jasan, vrlo bogatima, a naročito onima na Volstritu, nije tako dobro pod g. Obamom kao što bi im bilo da je 2012. pobedio Mit Romni. Pored delimičnog ukidanja Bušovih poreskih olakšica i povećanja poreza kojim se delimično plaća reforma zdravstva, poreske stope za najbogatijih 1 posto otprilike su vraćene na nivo pre Regana. Takođe, finansijski reformatori su ostvarili neke iznenađujuće pobede u proteklih godinu dana, što je loša vest za muljatore čije bogatstvo potiče uglavnom od zloupotrebe slabe regulacije. Dakle, može se reći da je 1 procenat izgubio neke važne političke bitke.

Ali svaka grupa se ponekad nađe pod kritikom i završi na gubitničkoj strani političkog spora, to je demokratija. Pitanje je šta se dalje dešava. Normalni ljudi to izdrže; čak i kad su besni i ogorčeni zbog političkog neuspeha, ne udaraju u kuknjavu kako ih neko proganja, ne porede svoje kritičare sa nacistima i ne tvrde da se svet okreće oko njihove duševne boli. Ali bogati nisu isti kao vi i ja.

Tačno, to je delimično zato što imaju više novca, i moći koja ga prati. Oni mogu, kao što i rade, da se okruže dvorjanima koji im govore ono što žele da čuju i nikad, apsolutno nikad im ne kažu da se ponašaju glupo. Navikli su na pokornost, ne samo ljudi koji za njih rade, nego i političara kojima je potreban njihov prilog za kampanju. Pa se onda zaprepaste kada čuju da novac ne može sve da kupi, da ne može da ih izoluje od nedaća.

Pretpostavljam i da su današnji Gospodari svemira nepoverljivi prema sopstvenom uspehu. Ne govorim ovde o ljudima koji nešto proizvode. Govorim o muljatorima, ljudima koji okreću pare i bogate se tako što skidaju kajmak s vrha. Možda se hvale kako su upravo oni ti koji otvaraju radna mesta, kako pokreću ekonomoju, ali da li zaista dodaju neku vrednost? Mnogi od nas u to sumnjaju – kao što sumnjaju, pretpostavljam, i neki od njih, a ta sumnja u sebe podstiče ih da se sa mnogo većom žestinom brecaju na svoje kritičare.

U svakom slučaju, sve smo ovo već videli. Nemoguće je čitati paskvile poput onih g. Perkinsa ili g. Švarcmana a da se ne setite čuvenog Ruzveltovog govora iz 1936. u Medison skver gardenu, kada je govorio o mržnji koju oseća od sila „organizovanog kapitala“ i rekao: „Radujem se toj mržnji.“

Predsednik Obama, nažalost, nije uradio ni približno koliko Ruzvelt da zasluži omrazu bogatih. Ali učinio je više nego što mu mnogi progresivci priznaju – i kao Ruzvelt, on i progresivci treba da se raduju ovoj mržnji, jer ona je znak da rade nešto dobro.

Paul Krugman, Plutokratska paranoja, The New York Times, 26.01.2014., Preveo Ivica Pavlović

Naši zapisi iz palanke izazivaju pažnju – pa i neku pohvalu – ali pristižu i zamerke, pa i neka prekorna reč – sve je to tako i neka je.

O pohvalama nećemo, ali o primedbama ćemo reći neku reč, jer su u pitanju državnici naši, te posebno glavni lik A. Vučić, koga smo u više navrata oslovili kao Gospodar. Jedan kritičar nam prigovara da smo navodno lik A. Vučića doveli u vezu sa čuvenim Tomom Vučićem Perišićem, koji je bio u XIX veku naš poznati državnik – ne, ništa slično nismo imali na umu jer to su davna vremena, a A. Vučić ima tek neke crte s Tomom Vučićem Perišićem, ali nikako nisu isti. Vuk Karadžić u svojim spisima naziva Tomu Vučića tiraninom i tlačiteljem, odnosno kaže za njega da je veliki „veliki krvopilac“ i o tome detaljno piše, jer je poznavao sve ustaničke vođe Srbije i sve potonje vladare naše. Vuk je u pravu. U vreme čuvene Katanske bune u Šapcu, Toma Vučić je bunu ugušio za račun Obrenovića i to surovo. Osnovao je u Šapcu autentični Gulag koji se zvao „Obor“ i učesnike bune je pohapsio i streljao lično ili, kako se onda govorilo, „puškarao“ svakog jutra po nekoliko i više tih pobunjenika. Užasi koji su se tu odigravali opisani su u istoriji do detalja – grozote prevazilaze one u Staljinovim Gulazima i to uveliko. Ni na pamet nam padalo nije da A. Vučića poredimo s tim krvolikom i teroristom. Vučića su zvali Gospodar Vučić i to je sve za sada. Kada su recimo Titovi ljudi oborili Rankovića, onda su srpski komunisti svakodnevno u govorima govorili o „novim gospodarima koji hoće da udave Srbiju“, a to su bili oni po srezovima ljudi Partije koji su se surovo želeli obračunati i s Titom ali – gospodari su oboreni a neki i pohapšeni. I još nešto o Gospodaru Tomi Vučiću Perišiću – imao je žbire i obaveštajne strukture koje ni sam knez Miloš, ni sin mu knez Mihajlo, nisu mogli da nadigraju. Gospodar Toma Vučić je bio obaveštajac kakvog ni danas nema.

Zahvaljujući tome, Vučić- Perišić je ugušio bunu 1844. I potom svrgao s vlasti i Miloša i Mihajla – to je deo naše istorije.

Nismo poredili Aleksandra Vučića s ovim Tomom Vučićem, ali ipak njih dvojica imaju neke zajedničke crtе – nikako nije reč o ubistvima. Toma Vučić je voleo apsolutnu ličnu vlast i držao je pod svojom rukom, partije je menjao često, niko nije smeo da pisne. Za sve se pitao on. Svi su mu celivali ruku i gurali se da do njega dođu. Tu je sličnost i samo tu sa A. Vučićem. Evo Vučić-Weber smenio sve šefove obaveštajnih agencija, jer samo on može sve da zna – i neku tamo VBA i VOA i doveo svoje ljude, jer on je sada Gospodar. On se za sve pita. Da li će biti izbora, kada i kako ili neće, pita se A. Vučić. Da li će deca dobiti paketiće za Srpsku novu godinu, pita se opet On; da li će se kopati kanal da tri Morave krenu – ispod Kosova i Makedonije – prema Jegejskom moru, da jednom izađemo na more, pita se On, Gospodar Vučić.

I sada novo ovo – Grad na vodi – Beograd na vodi – kao da grad ne leži milionima godina na dvema velikim vodama kao retko koji drugi grad.

Novaca nema, budžet je veštački, nema ni za penzije ni za plate žandarima, a neko hoće da igra ulogu Petra Velikog i da gradi čudo od grada i da otvara neki „prozor u Evropi“, kako je Petar Veliki činio gradeći Sankt Petersburg – donedavno Lenjingrad – ali car je imao novaca jer mu je brodogradnja donosila milione, a i sam je radio kao radnik sa alatom u ruci i u poslu nije bilo problema. Niko ne sme ni da pita šta će vam to, kome to danas treba u gradu koji grca u siromaštvu. I za to se On Gospodar pita i samo On. Niko nema ni struju da plati, sve je pokradeno, a država plaća svakog jutra neke milione i milijarde samo da otplati dugove, a to su takve cifre da običan čovek to ne ume da izgovori, a kamoli da napiše te njihove desetine miliona milijardi. Ludilo. Ali za sve se pita On, Gospodar Vučić, i ako kaže nećemo, nećemo, ako kaže hoćemo – hoćemo. On vlada suvereno u zemlji čiji je suverenitet blago rečeno okrnjen odavno. Ludilo košta, a megalomanija je još skuplja, crkve i hramovi niču, veće od one u Rimu u kojoj služi sam papa rimski. Nema dana da nam novine ne jave kako je Bogorodica proplakala – kako i ne bi u ovakvom ludilu. Običan čovek to ne shvata i shvatiti ne može.

Ako je tačna vest – daj bože da nije – da će i Boris Nejaki Tadić učlaniti se u SNS, onda je to to, pa ako nam je dobro, onda ništa. Ko zna, jer najprkosniji opozicionari već ljube ruke Vučiću, a neki ga proglašavaju za apostola, kažu da drži reč, i tako to.

Lajbnic – to je filozof – kaže ne brinemo jer ovo je najbolji od svih svetova – bože jedini, kakav li je onaj svet na koji se nadamo ako je ovaj najbolji.

Tužno i sumorno.

Mirko Djordjevic: Beograd na hlebu i vodi, 21. jan, Autonomija

Philip Seymour Hoffman: The Greatest Actor of His Generation

The actor, discovered dead in his apartment at 46, was Hollywood’s patron saint of schlubs, losers, and outcasts.
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Famous deaths invite hyperbole. The news that Philip Seymour Hoffman was discovered dead today in an apartment bathroom, with a syringe sticking out of his arm, seems like an occasion to overreact with some exaggerated summary of his career—something like “most talented and kaleidoscopic actor of his time.”

Except, in this case, the compliment isn’t hyperbolic at all. It’s just an accurate description, as true yesterday as it is today. And the competition isn’t even that close.

The first thing about Philip Seymour Hoffman—that is, the first thing most audiences saw—is that he looked unremarkable, even boring. He had a hangdog countenance, often sliced with the swoop of his receding blond mane, with small, firm eyes. He wasn’t strikingly handsome, nor strikingly unhandsome, neither thin nor obese, not blessed with any distinguishing gosh-wow feature that would make somebody watching an early performance in Twister or The Big Lebowski exclaim, “I think we’ve found our next Brando.” Instead of standing out in these early films, he stood within them—gauging the pace and tone of the action around him and blending in so delicately that it’s not uncommon for even Hoffman fanatics to look back on his career and think, I forgot he was in that.

It’s easy to forget because there is so much to remember. Even the shortlist is long: The Hunger Games: Catching FireThe MasterMoneyballThe Ides of March, Doubt, Synecdoche, New YorkCharlie Wilson’s WarBefore the Devil Knows You’re DeadMission: Impossible IIICapoteAlong Came PollyAlmost FamousThe Talented Mr. RipleyMagnoliaBoogie NightsAnd those are just the movies I remember seeing. The list doesn’t include his tremendous career in theater, a stage where his talents were arguably even more kinetic.

The diversity of that list—biopics, romantic comedies, dark dramas, action franchises—offers an appreciation for Hoffman’s range. But to truly understand it, you have to see the man in action. Here is our first scene, a talker from Aaron Sorkin’s Charlie Wilson’s War, where Hoffman plays a maverick CIA agent bitching out his boss, with a voice that flips from wry guttural to grizzly-bear roar.

Now a scene from Capote, for which Hoffman won the Academy Award for Best Actor. Nothing is the same—the voice, the face, the instincts. This isn’t a talking scene. It’s a listening scene—and it’s masterful. It is, as Hoffman’s director Mike Nichols once observed, as if he has rearranged his molecules and reassembled his smallest gestures to form an unidentifiably different human. Acting this good isn’t instructive: It’s just a lesson in what most other actors will never be able to do.

Finally, out of nowhere, here is the same Oscar-award-winning actor hamming up a pick-up basketball scene in Along Came Polly, as if suddenly possessed by the heavenly spirit of Chris Farley.

An actor this good at talking should not be so good at silence. An actor so good at silence shouldn’t be this good at talking. In the delicate art of negotiating rest stops, commanding crescendos, and unleashing fortes, there wasn’t a more precise conductor of performances than Hoffman.

We can see, in most actors’ greatest roles, a reflection of what we imagine to be their truest self. Jack Nicholson charms as the platonic ideal of a rake, or Al Pacino as the embodiment of bottled and uncorked rage, or Robert DeNiro, as power cut with insecurity (or insecurity cut with power). This sort of mental experiment fails entirely when applied to Hoffman. In Charlie Wilson’s War and Moneyball, where he tosses in supporting-role gems, he is a wall of quiet (and then not-so-quiet) intimidation. He positions himself broodingly behind his stomach, as if it’s an office desk. And yet his only Oscar came from playing Truman Capote, an elfin writer, tiny as a human figurine. To watch and believe Hoffman as Capote is to participate in the purest form of theater: This could never be, and yet it is.

Daniel Day-Lewis, the most decorated male actor of his time, has astonished as America’s most famous president and most ruthless fictional oil titan. But he excels at playing superlatives—at commanding the aristocratic awe of characters who are bigger than life. Day-Lewis playing a game of pick-up basketball in a romantic comedy isn’t a movie scene. It’s a discarded SNL skit. It’s a bad joke. He would never do it, and nobody would ever want to see it. Hoffman was different. He could puff himself up and play larger than life, but his specialty—losers, outcasts, and human marginalia—was to find the quiet dignity in life-sized characters.

It’s not clear that there were roles Philip Seymour Hoffman could not do. He had that many lives within him—and more, undiscovered and unseen—and those lives, along with his own, are now lost. “For me, acting is torturous,” Hoffman told the New York Times in 2008, “and it’s torturous because you know it’s a beautiful thing. I was young once, and I said, That’s beautiful and I want that. Wanting it is easy, but trying to be great—well, that’s absolutely torturous.”

He continued: “In the end, I’m grateful to feel something so deeply, and I’m also grateful that it’s over. And that’s my life.”

The Atlantic, , FEB 2 2014, 4:12 PM ET