Val Kilmer: A Legacy of Art, Vulnerability, and Spiritual Longing
In the early hours of April 2, I learned of Val Kilmer’s passing and posted about it online. Not long after, I fell asleep – and had a dream. Kilmer appeared, driving me home. When we arrived at my old childhood house, he asked if he could stay and hang out. There was a gentleness in his request, as if he didn’t want to be alone. My mother was there – curious to meet him. He seemed adrift, still alive in the dream, but searching for something undefined.
Dreams are mysterious things. As the Book of Job says, “In a dream, in a vision of the night… God opens the ears of men.” Saint Augustine also believed that dreams can offer glimpses of eternity – moments when the soul, no longer tethered to sensory distractions, senses something of divine presence. Perhaps my subconscious was trying to process Kilmer’s death. Or perhaps, in that liminal moment between waking and sleep, something deeper broke through.
Val Kilmer was more than a Hollywood celebrity. He was a paradox: heartthrob and philosopher, movie star and spiritual seeker. Best known for roles in Top Gun, The Doors, Batman Forever, and Tombstone, Kilmer also painted, sculpted, wrote poetry, and starred on stage as Moses in The Ten Commandments: The Musical. He refused to be confined to one medium or image. He was what one might call a modern-day Renaissance man.
In Top Gun: Maverick, his final film, Kilmer appeared briefly but powerfully as “Iceman.” It was a moving moment – not only because of the film’s plot, but because Kilmer’s real-life voice had been diminished by throat cancer and a tracheotomy. The filmmakers used digital technology to recreate his voice. That single scene – between Kilmer and longtime friend Tom Cruise – became a meditation on aging, friendship, and mortality. Cruise later said working with Kilmer again was “very special” and “very emotional.” Their offscreen bond, developed over nearly four decades, was evident. Their exchange reminded me of what Aristotle once called a “friendship of virtue” built on shared growth and mutual respect. Such friendships aren’t erased by time; they are deepened by it.
As a Catholic theologian, I’ve long been fascinated by how people grapple with suffering and meaning. Kilmer was a devout Christian Scientist, and this deeply shaped how he approached his battle with cancer. He believed strongly in the power of prayer to heal. Despite undergoing surgery and other medical treatments, he credited his recovery not to medicine alone, but to divine love and spiritual conviction. Christian Science teaches that spirit is the ultimate reality, while matter is secondary – an idea that stands in contrast to Catholic theology, which holds to the incarnation: God becoming flesh in Jesus Christ to redeem the world, body, and soul.
Yet even across those theological differences, I find something profoundly admirable in Kilmer’s courage. He chose to be vulnerable, especially in his later years. His 2021 documentary Val, compiled from decades of personal footage, offers a raw, unfiltered look at a man wrestling with illness, identity, and mortality – while still finding beauty in art, humour, and connection. He explored that longing for transcendence not only through roles like Jim Morrison in The Doors, but also in overlooked films like The Salton Sea, where his character navigates loss and personal disintegration. Kilmer consistently sought out complex roles that revealed the inner tension between despair and hope.
His dreamlike visit left me reflecting on what many of us long for: to be remembered, to be understood, to find our way home. Whether on screen or off, Kilmer carried the aura of someone always reaching – for truth, for love, perhaps even for God. That’s what makes his legacy more than cinematic. It makes it human.
Rest in peace, Val. Through your films, your art, and your honest vulnerability, you helped many of us reflect more deeply on our own lives. Perhaps now, at last, you’ve found the peace you were searching for.