Val Kilmer

Val Kilmer died yesterday. He was sixty-five years old. The news hit me harder than I expected, even though I’ve followed his health battles for years. Maybe it’s because for as long as I’ve loved movies, Val Kilmer was in them—really in them. Even when he wasn’t the film's lead, he was the scene. He had that rare quality that couldn’t be faked: the moment he stepped into a role, it belonged to him. He owned it. It became iconic because of him.

We could talk about the full scope of his career—and it was vast. A Juilliard-trained thespian with Shakespearean chops, Kilmer burst onto the screen in Top Secret! (1984), a spoof that’s still one of the funniest movies of its era. He showed early on he wasn’t just a pretty face; he had timing, intelligence, and a willingness to dive headfirst into the absurd.

He followed that with Real Genius (1985), playing a whip-smart, prank-loving physics prodigy who somehow made genius look like the coolest thing in the world. Then came Top Gun, where as Iceman, he was cocky and ice-cold and just as compelling as Maverick, if not more so. "You're still dangerous... But you can be my wingman anytime!"

But for me—and for many—Val Kilmer’s defining role was Doc Holliday in Tombstone (1993). What a cast. Sam Elliott, Bill Paxton, Powers Boothe, Michael Biehn, Dana Delany, Stephen Lang, even Charlton Heston in a cameo. And yet, in the middle of all that firepower, Val Kilmer shone brightest. His Doc Holliday wasn’t just the best performance in the film — it was one of the best performances of the decade. No disrespect to Kurt Russell, who was excellent as Wyatt Earp, but the movie belongs to Kilmer. His Doc is gaunt, charming, dangerous, elegant, doomed. Every line is delivered like Southern Gothic poetry. From “You’re a daisy if you do” to “I’m your huckleberry,” he didn’t just steal the movie—he made it eternal. He turned what could’ve been a flamboyant side character into the emotional and philosophical heart of the film. And it's criminal—absolutely criminal—that he didn’t win an Oscar for it. Val Kilmer wasn’t just acting in Tombstone. He was inhabiting it. Hell, he was haunting it.

And it didn’t stop there. His body of work is a testament to versatility. He was Jim Morrison in The Doors, so completely transformed it made you question if you were watching a documentary. He was a con man in The Saint, a stoic thief in Heat, a lion hunter in The Ghost and the Darkness, an alcoholic detective in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. He was Batman. He was Elvis. He was Twain. And somehow, in all of them, you still saw Kilmer’s soul flickering behind the eyes. Even when his health began to fail, when his voice was taken by cancer, when he showed up—briefly, but powerfully—in Top Gun: Maverick, it was the moment that made the film.

He wasn’t always easy, they say. Directors clashed with him. Co-stars sometimes did too. But show me an artist of any medium worth remembering who wasn’t complicated. You don’t get performances like his by being easy. You get them from someone who pours everything into the moment and doesn’t care if it hurts—yourself or anyone else—a little.

And so Val Kilmer becomes one of film’s Eternals—always Jim Morrison, swaggering through an alcoholic haze of incense and rebellion; always Chris Shiherlis in Heat, haunted eyes behind a thief’s calm precision; always Madmartigan, the reluctant hero with a sword in one hand and a smirk on his face; always Elvis, a ghost in gold lamé, whispering courage and cool into Clarence Worley’s ear in True Romance; and always Doc Holliday—gentleman killer, loyal friend, Southern-drawled enigma soaked in whiskey, blood, and charm. There may never be another actor capable of making tubercular sputum so Goddamn sexy. You're a daisy if you do.

In Pace Requiescat, Val Kilmer. You made every movie you were in better. You made movies better. And you’ll always be my huckleberry.