Once upon a time in a dive bar in my mostly sleepy hometown, a man I met in a short bathroom line tried to pick me up by telling me how beautiful my aura was. He described it in detail. It was majestic, he said.
As part of his plan to woo me, he gifted me a tattered and yellowing paperback he'd picked up from a local thrift store insisting it was proof he was psychic. He wanted me to read it, convinced it would change my life the way it had changed his.
A handful of chapters into this memoir, I realized: That guy could have been Val Kilmer. He wasn't, of course. But had he been Val, had I met Val Kilmer for any ridiculously random reason at any point in my life that memory would have been the first one unlocked for me—a visceral and amusing reminder of how thoroughly convinced of their own bullshit some people are and always will be.
Kilmer the actor? Oh, I've always been a fan. [Even as I will forever maintain that all actors are more than slightly unhinged, by design.]
Do I think anyone else could have played Doc Holliday as brilliantly as he did? Absolutely not.
Would Top Gun have become such an iconic hit without him as Ice playing the perfect foil to Cruise's Maverick? Doubtful.
Will The Saint remain one of my all-time favorite movies, largely because he's so masterfully talented [and really quite funny] in it? Yes. I will love that movie forever.
I'll even admit to scrawling "I heart Val Kilmer" on a napkin when I was in elementary school, tucking it safely in one of my first diaries. Decades later, I still have it, and the memory of one of my earliest crushes still makes me smile.
The trouble with someone like Val Kilmer writing a memoir, though, is that no one in his life has seemingly ever told him he's even slightly full of shit, or misogynistic, or maybe should go easy on culturally [mis]appropriating histories to which he can lay no claim [though of course he does because privileged white dudes gonna be privileged white dudes].
Letting Val be Val aside, the trouble with someone like Val Kilmer writing a memoir is that, at a certain point, everyone helping him bring the book into the world gave up on editing it or making it flow, feel, and read even remotely like a cohesive narrative.
So instead of an interesting memoir it reads like a descent into literal and metaphorical madness—doubling as a poignant record of Val's prolific and bizarre dating history, because: why not, right?
The number of women who were and are literal angels in his life? Well, I lost count there were so many. [Kilmer would have killed in the early days of LiveJournal.]
And then there was the paragraph where he said he'd never found his [then] wife more beautiful than when she was giving birth because "A woman being all that she can be? That's it for me, man."
I likely would have tossed the book into a fire as kindling at that point had there been a fire nearby, and had I not been so invested in what nonsense was going to come out of his mouth and onto the page next.
[Five stars for sheer pomp and circumstance minus three stars for utter vanity and so many sentences and paragraphs that make absolutely no sense = Two stars for what is surely one of the best titled memoirs in history, and one of the most terribly written.]