“I see myself as a sensitive, intelligent human being, but with the soul of a clown.”
Val Kilmer, aged 65, took off sometime yesterday in Los Angeles. And I’m sorry…of course I am. But the announcement shocked no one. Kilmer’s bout with throat cancer that began in the mid teens, his jarring Will Sampson-like appearance starting around 2020, the vibe of diminishment he gave off in Top Gun: Maverick…we all understood he was on a gradual downswirl. There but for the grace of God.
A lot of people will be streaming Val, that better than-decent 2021 portrait doc, on Amazon tonight. Or Oliver Stone‘s The Doors (in which Kilmer did his own singing) or Top Gun or Tombstone (Kilmer’s grayish pallor and wheezy cough) or Batman Forever (that Batsuit ass shot) or Phillip Noyce‘s under-remembered but smartly engaging The Saint.
But for me the ultimate Val Kilmer film — the one I immediately default to when I think of this fine, conflicted, relentlessly passionate fellow, whom I knew very slightly and chatted with once or twice — is not one of his starring vehicles (for he was never really a superstar as much as a high-energy, high-commitment character actor) but Michael Mann‘s Heat (’95), an ensemble crime film for the ages.
Kilmer played Chris Shiherlis, a rugged, well-disciplined, first-rate thief with a gambling problem…a loyal soldier who absolutely ruled during that explosive shoot-out scene in downtown Los Angeles.
After watching Heat with one of my sons for the third or fourth time in the early aughts, I remember saying in a tone of hushed reverence, “If I was reckless and self-destructive enough to be a bank robber, which would never happen but still…if I ever got into a ferocious shoot-out with cats who wanted to take me down, I would want a hardcore guy like Kilmer defending my flank and covering my six.”
Not that shooting at street cops is any kind of decent or civilized thing, but when and if the chips are down and the bullet casings are flying…
True stuff: I went to a party at Kilmer’s Hollywood Hills home sometime in early ’03 or ’04. (Bill Maher was there also.) I never regarded Kilmer as anything more than just a name-brand actor I’d said hello to once or twice, but he was a friendly host that night. Cool to shoot the shit with in the kitchen. We talked about The Saint. There was a huge blowup photo of Angelina Jolie, his recent Alexander costar, on the living room wall.
Seven years earlier I did a fair amount of reporting on an Entertainment Weekly hit piece about the tumultuous shooting of The Island of Dr. Moreau. At one time or another the piece was called “Psycho Kilmer, Qu’est ca c’est?“. Did Kilmer know I’d helped out on this damning article? I only know that he didn’t mention it during our kitchen chat.
In 2011 I was interviewing Judy Greer at a West Hollywood La Pain Quotidien about her award-calibre supporting performance in Alexander Payne‘s The Descendants. Kilmer was there also, and we exchanged curt smiles and waves without speaking. We waved at each other again as he left 15 or 20 minutes later. When it came time to pay the bill for Judy and myself, I was told by the waitress that Kilmer had paid it.
Despite all the bumps and potholes, Kilmer was a good soul…for my money he exuded decency and seemed to be seeking transcendence at every turn.
Marc Antony in Julius Caesar: “This was a man!”
