Goodbye to Val Kilmer — A Hollywood Legend and Cherished Friend

Val Kilmer. To many, a film icon. To me, an unwavering friend.

Unique and wonderfully odd. Here’s how:

One morning, he arrives at my door. Unexpectedly. I had no idea he had flown in from California. He just showed up. Why? That’s just who Val was.

The building staff, having seen us together before, always checked if it was alright to let him in. But I wasn’t home at the moment. My housekeeper calls me, and I say, of course, let him in. I’ll be back in an hour. He had been to our place plenty of times. It’s Val Kilmer—definitely allow him inside.

This movie star was visibly disheveled—perspiring, unshaven, wearing a wrinkled, sleeveless t-shirt, scruffy shorts, and sandals. His toes were showing. And he was hungry. My housekeeper made him breakfast. He was content. He felt at home. He had no luggage with him.

As I return, I hear the sound of water rushing in a bathroom. A shower is on. The only person around is a fully-clothed housekeeper. Meanwhile, Val Kilmer is completely undressed. The bathroom door is locked. Minutes pass, and then, wrapped snugly in a monogrammed bath towel, out walks a very wet VAL KILMER! He decided he needed a little wash at my place.

We shared a dear friend who lived in Boston and was set to join me for dinner that night. Val wanted to join us, but I insisted no, no, no. Forget Wendy’s; we had reservations at a fancy restaurant. And his casual outfit—even freshened up—wasn’t going to work.

This happened years back. He dashed to Bloomingdale’s, purchasing a dress shirt, a silk tie, a full suit (which they fitted for him), along with dress shoes and socks. Why did he do this? Because he was Val Kilmer. And by 8 p.m., he showed up, dressed to the nines like a true movie star.

A West Coaster, he sometimes resided in the East or enjoyed his ranch in the Midwest. We often found him—watching over him—when whatever he had consumed would leave him sitting on a frigid winter curb at 2 a.m. He loved to shop. At one quilt store, he purchased five handmade quilts.

He once told me he discovered his divorce by seeing it on the TV news. He acquired a $29,500 Batmobile alarm clock. He had a desire to meet Dr. Mehmet Oz. Simon & Schuster offered him a $400,000 advance for his autobiography.

I remember a special screening set for him to view his latest film. He never arrived. Instead, he called me from Berlin Airport. I witnessed him purchase a crate of Native American blankets in New Mexico and later sell them.

He invited me to a performance by his friend Cate Blanchett at BAM. He never picked up the bill; he preferred to bring gifts. He had a documentary, performed a one-man show about Mark Twain, and his daughter Mercedes was studying art.

On one flight, he ended up sleeping with the flight attendant. On another film set, he clashed with the cast. He once raised funds for a movie about Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science. At an Italian restaurant, he’d request tuna instead of pasta. He watched a Will Ferrell show two nights in a row. He had a creative project going on at his ranch in New Mexico. For a white-tie event in Santa Fe, he showed up in shorts and a baseball cap.

He played polo, got tattoos, spent Christmas in Paris, and talked to me at length about his upcoming movie “Spartan” directed by Mamet.

He was unique. Quirky. Did we all love and try to protect him? Absolutely. He would show up unannounced in the dead of night at our friend’s place in Boston and expect to be welcomed in. And he was. He was our friend. He was Val Kilmer.