Another star in the firmament extinguished

Soon, too soon, after the untimely death of James Gandolfini at a mere 50-years old, Philip Seymour Hoffman has been found dead in his New York apartment (not unlike Heath Ledger).  At only 46, he had enough four decades whereby he could enrich the world with his talents.  He was one of the living actors I respected most and now no more.  Genius ripped from our collective bosom.
Every film that I've known him to be in has been above average, if not outstanding - certainly Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo on the latter's radio slot struggled to name a bad film.  This is a rare quality in today's age when even stellar actors sometimes have to dumb down to pay the bills.  And, of course, he was always brilliant, even in films with which one would not associate him particularly, such as Mission: Impossible 3, where his reptilian villain was the best thing in the movie, further kudos added as he was a late replacement for Kenneth Branagh and still managed to bring his usual quality to the role.  His big breakthrough was Todd Solondz's iconoclastic Happiness where he played a monstrous yet tragic figure, a casting that became a hallmark for him - just as sociopaths were and are for Robert de Niro - culminating in his Oscar-winning turn in Capote, the filmmakers somehow transposing his girth into the pipsqueak playwright and gossip-monger.  Hoffman was one of the greatest character actors of the last twenty years and this is a tragedy that should resound around the world.