When Paul Thomas Anderson released Licorice Pizza in 2021, audiences expected another masterclass in storytelling from one of America’s most celebrated filmmakers. What they may not have expected was how deeply personal the movie would feel—not just for Anderson, but for anyone who had admired the work of Philip Seymour Hoffman. On the surface, Licorice Pizza is a playful, nostalgic story about a teenager hustling his way through the San Fernando Valley in the 1970s. Beneath that surface, though, it carries the unmistakable weight of Hoffman’s presence. Through the casting of his son, Cooper Hoffman, and through themes that reflect the elder Hoffman’s strengths as an actor, Licorice Pizza becomes a heartfelt tribute to one of Anderson’s most important collaborators and closest friends.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was more than just a frequent actor in Anderson’s films—he was part of the director’s creative DNA. From his unforgettable turn as the lovestruck boom operator Scotty in Boogie Nights to the compassionate hospice nurse in Magnolia, and finally to his towering role as Lancaster Dodd in The Master, Hoffman gave Anderson’s films their beating heart. He had a way of bringing every character to life, no matter how small the role. Anderson often said that Hoffman elevated his movies, bringing a mix of vulnerability, humor, and power that couldn’t be faked. Their partnership lasted nearly two decades, and Hoffman became a kind of anchor for Anderson’s storytelling. When Hoffman died suddenly in 2014, the loss was felt not only in Hollywood but also very personally by Anderson. It wasn’t just the end of a working relationship; it was the loss of someone who had shaped his films in ways both obvious and subtle.

This is what makes the casting of Cooper Hoffman in Licorice Pizza so moving. Cooper, Philip’s son, makes his acting debut as Gary Valentine, a child actor-turned-aspiring entrepreneur who spends the movie bouncing from one scheme to another while chasing after the older, enigmatic Alana Kane (played by Alana Haim). It’s a bold choice for Anderson, not only because Cooper had never acted before but also because his very name invokes the memory of his father. All eyes are on him upon this movie’s release, and Cooper delivered. He’s not imitating Philip, but there are flashes—the posture, the sudden shifts from confidence to insecurity—that remind you of him. Anderson’s decision to guide Cooper through his first performance feels almost paternal, as if he’s passing the torch he once shared with Philip.

Licorice Pizza works as a warm, nostalgic trip back to Anderson’s own youth in the Valley, but it also reflects the kinds of roles Hoffman so often embodied. Gary Valentine is a performer by nature—an actor, a hustler, a salesman, always putting on a show. The concept of “performance” was central to many of Hoffman’s characters, whether he portrayed the manipulative cult leader in The Master or the tender caregiver in Magnolia. He excelled at showing how people present themselves one way while hiding their real emotions underneath. Gary is a teenager trying to figure out why he is by pretending to be someone bigger, older, and more successful than he really is. That same tension—between performance and vulnerability—defined Hoffman’s best work. Through Gary, Cooper channels something that feels directly connected to his father’s spirit.

It’s also worth noting that Licorice Pizza feels different from the Anderson films Hoffman once starred in. After Hoffman’s death, Anderson’s work underwent a shift, at his most relaxed, making a film about kids figuring out life rather than adults wrestling with big philosophical questions. This lightness can also be read as a way of honoring Hoffman, who was known for his intensity, but was also famously funny and full of warmth off-screen. By making a movie about joy, absurdity, and youthful energy, Anderson is remembering not just the actor audiences saw on screen, but the person he knew in real life.

In many ways, the entire film is built on the idea of legacy. Cooper Hoffman steps into a role that carries the memory of his father, but the film doesn’t weigh him down with that responsibility. Instead, Anderson gives him space to be his own performer. The audience feels the connection, but Cooper is allowed to make Gary Valentine his own character—funny, arrogant, vulnerable, and full of contradictions. It’s hard not to think of Philip Seymour Hoffman when watching Cooper, but instead of sadness, what comes through is a sense of continuity. It’s as if Anderson is saying that while Hoffman is gone, his presence still shapes the art being made today.

By the end of Licorice Pizza, when Gary and Alana run through the streets to find each other, the film feels less like a traditional narrative and more like a memory captured on film. That sense of memory is what makes it such a powerful tribute. Anderson isn’t making a movie “about” Philip Seymour Hoffman, but every frame feels touched by him. The joy of the film is inseparable from the grief of his absence, and the result is something deeply human: a love letter disguised as a romantic dramedy. It’s why Licorice Pizza is more than a movie about teenage love; it’s a tribute to friendship, memory, and the kind of legacy that can only come from true collaboration. And in that sense, it may be the most beautiful way Anderson could have said goodbye—and thank you—to Philip Seymour Hoffman.

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