We’ve all become so used to Phillip Seymour Hoffman‘s alabaster, doughy, gone-to-seed features and the sly, precise brilliance of his various performances that it’s jolting to consider that he was once but a fair lad. I don’t care what anyone says now — Martin Brest‘s Scent of a Woman (’93) is a damn near perfect film for what it is, slow pacing and all. I just can’t buy the Ferrari-driving sequence — that’s my only beef.