The Unbearable Lightness of Val Kilmer

In August of 2024, I learned that my friend, John, had committed suicide. He was 52 years old. 

I had known John since I was a kid. We had remained friends in that way you do with those you meet in childhood and maintain a relationship with as an adult; that is, as life allows. 

In the last decade or so, we had grown closer despite being geographically far apart. We would text, call, or visit as often as time and work and other obligations allowed. He cheered me on during my divorce and I did my best to do the same over what had been a rough few years: a lost job, home, and relationship. He had been down—as anyone would be—but I had always assumed he would make it through as he—and I—had before, and then…he didn’t. 

When I heard the news, I was angry and sad and then, like how I’ve handled so many things in my life, I went numb. I ignored the pain and sorrow and kept floating through my life, filled with the familiar emptiness and anxiety I could never quite do anything about. 

Then, on April 1, 2025, like a cosmic joke, I found myself absolutely devastated by the death of the actor Val Kilmer. Like, ‘could barely function for days’ devastated. ‘Liable to burst into sobs at any moment’ devastated. All over a man I didn’t even know and whose movies I hadn’t thought about in decades. 

But, down a rabbit hole I went. I watched his movies. All of the ones I could easily find, that is, even some of the later ones that are barely watchable or, in some cases, better than they have any right to be. I read his autobiography and the profiles done throughout his career and life. I scoured YouTube for interviews and retrospectives. Val Kilmer became my preoccupation. A new hobby. My constant companion. I felt like I was learning the definition of “parasocial” in real time. 

I realized eventually, of course, that Val Kilmer was simply a stand-in for the grief I hadn’t let myself feel for my friend. Something happened though in the middle of understanding what was driving my obsession: I became inspired. 

Val Kilmer was a remarkable—albeit deeply complicated—man. You’re forgiven for not knowing that. I wonder how many did because his moments of true brilliance and humanity, I think, came outside or long after Hollywood—and the big studio films he was once known for—held any answers. His is a story of perseverance, determination, and the power of humility. He got back up, again and again, when knocked down by personal tragedies, the ego of youth, his own bad behavior, the curse of perfectionism, an industry that no longer wanted him, and, finally, the loss of his health and voice. 

As I learned more, I thought about my friend—why couldn’t he have believed in himself in the same way? And then I thought: why don’t I? 

The ugly truth—of the sort you only admit in your quietest moments—is I’ve spent my life making myself small so as to never be perceived while desperately wanting to be seen. My fear of rejection, failure, and ridicule have limited my perceived choices and, often, left me paralyzed. I talk a good game, but the naked reality is I live in regrets and past slights and have done little to move on. To be sure, I think I’ve done mostly fine in life, but just…fine. How much more could I have done—could do!—if I just lived boldly? Unapologetically. Without fear, but with kindness and compassion, especially for myself. What if I ignored the voices in my head and just…tried? Or to look at it through the cinematic lens of Val Kilmer: what if I took to heart Iceman’s advice to Maverick: “It’s time to let go.”

So, I have. At least, I’m learning to and, for better or worse, I’m letting Val Kilmer be my guide. Is this weird? Absolutely. It’s totally nuts and I’m pretty sure I’m having a mid-life crisis, but you know what? Over the last few months, since considering the Unbearable Lightness of Val Kilmer (and, finally, grieving my friend), I have made more strides than ever to create the me and the life that I want. I find myself smiling a lot and I can actually say that I (mostly) like myself now. Every day, I awake excited (and, sometimes, absolutely fucking terrified) of what comes next. 

That gets us to here, dear reader. The next step in the process: this thing I’m writing to document this journey—at 50!— for myself, in honor of my friend, and to, hopefully, show the power of simply showing up. And, of course, all this comes along with a side of writing about Val Kilmer and his movies. Will anyone read it? Who knows and it doesn’t really matter. I want to do it, so I am and that’s the point. 

The goal is to update this project weekly for at least a year starting in August 2025—the anniversary of John’s death. 

Soon before he lost his voice to cancer, Val did an interview with a Norwegian TV program. His voice is strangled—he seems to struggle to speak several times—and he looks not much like Doc Holliday, Bruce Wayne, or, even, Gay Perry. What is remarkable though is how present and honest he is. This is a man who has decided to take off the mask and let the world judge him, good or bad. It could easily have been a tragic display of a once famous man grappling with the loss of his glory days, but it is, in a word, delightful. He’s funny and charming and self-aware in a way that makes you root for him and want more.

There’s one quote from that interview I think about when I start to question why I’m doing this whole exercise: “I wish that I had loved more. I want to be a better person. I try to figure that out, every day, to be more grateful.” 

Me too, Val. Me too. So, let’s go.