Editor's note: This article has been updated throughout to expand on the author's unique experience with PSH.
NEW YORK (TheStreet) -- It was the best of times -- and damn, it was the very best of times.
It's the tale of two Philip Seymour Hoffmans -- one was my college classmate who was a brilliant actor and a sharp critic and the other allegedly died a shameful death, with a needle in his arm. I knew Phil about a well as you'd know any colleague whose work you critiqued several days a week for a few years. I never knew of his drug life back then.
Hoffman and I were actors in an elite program. Only one in every 2,000 applicants were chosen to train at the Circle in the Square program, Tisch School of the Arts, New York University. We both graduated with Bachelors of Fine Arts in 1989. (I later received a Masters in Publishing from our alma mater.)
Hoffman and I studied under Alan Langdon and Jacqueline Brookes among other legends. After every performance, the class would critique "the work." Phil, I and few others were quite vocal when actors were "playing a part" rather than living it. We suffered no fakers. Either you would bring your raw emotions and stinky parts, with all the fibers of your being -- or go home in tears.
The point of this article is, I heard Phil's laugh. Not in a movie, in class. I remember his hand gestures when he was pissed off. I remember how he would shake his head left to right with disbelief or confusion after a scene.
I remember how, when I once got the instructions for a scene in Langdon's class so wrong, Phil looked at me, raised both hands as if to say, what the hell was that? I do not remember his words, because that was 28 years ago. But I remember how it made me feel. It confirmed that I had to be more focused and more dedicated, or choose another career.