Val

A painful but also exhilarating self-portrait of an A-list actor who spent his life pretending to be somebody else, and found his authentic soul after losing his voice.

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Celebrity can be a blessing, a curse and a drug -- often all, and for the same person.

Consider the lifespan of movie stardom. Maybe one out of 10,000 young film actors breaks out of the pack, and even then their heyday usually lasts a few years at most. You can be one of the most famous people in the world, and just a few beats of a lifetime later you're largely forgotten.

(Pop quiz time: without Googling, name the last movies Josh Hartnett, Cameron Diaz or Jennifer Garner were in. All huge stars not so long ago. Answers below.**)

"Val," the new biographical documentary about (and largely by) Val Kilmer is a testament to the fleeting, fickle nature of celebrity. It's essentially one actor's cinematic diary, shot by himself using handheld video cameras dating back to his childhood when they first became available to the general public, and he and his brothers made all sorts of movies.

He looks back on his life and movies with the sort of clear-eyed honesty you don't get from a Hollywood celebrity, even a washed-up one.

Behind the scenes on Kilmer's movie sets, home movies, self-made screen tests, pitches to directors, just hamming around -- it's all here, thousands of hours of it, distilled down to a 108-minute documentary that is part confessional, part celebration. Mostly, it's a portrait of a restless, creative soul who has an insatiable need to express himself. 

Kilmer hit it big early. His very first film role was the lead in "Top Secret!" straight of Julliard's, then he became a big star with "Top Gun" and rode the Hollywood train for the next 15 years or so as one of its prized "gets," even walking away from Batman's cowl after a commercially successful turn in "Batman Forever."

He kept working steadily in smaller movies, then seemed to disappear a few years ago. Now we know why.

It's pretty obvious the reason Kilmer is making this film now. He had a bout of throat cancer -- referred to rather obliquely in the film -- that resulted in the loss of his natural speaking voice. These days he wears a trachea tube around his neck, which he sort-of covers with flouncy scarves, that he has to use one finger to close so he can force out some words in a guttural croak. 

Here's the best comparison I can give: you remember Roz, the cranky mid-level manager in "Monsters, Inc.?" Imagine if she were talking to you over a walkie-talkie, underwater. And Kilmer has to wipe away spittle that erupts from his lips while struggling to speak.

My point is, it's not a pretty picture. And it must be especially tough for a guy regarded as one of the most beautiful men ever to grace the big screen. Not handsome -- positively, ethereally beautiful. Frosty green eyes beneath (dyed) blond mane, angelic, slightly androgynous features set off by an impish smirk. 

Girls wanted to be with him; guys wanted to punch him, or be with him.

Between his robotic voice and the natural aging process where stuff tends to head south, Kilmer surely knows that his viability as an actor is over. He says just that. He turned to painting for awhile, wanted to start an actors/artists commune until his money ran out. So now he's doing this.

Kilmer lives next to his daughter, Mercedes, in a shambolic split apartment. He's also close to his son, Jack, who narrates the movie in a voice that is meant to suggest Val's old one without trying to mimic it. His interactions with his kids just gleam with honesty and affection: being a dad is his primary romance these days.

We look back on his wooing and marriage to actress Joanne Whalley; he was smitten with her years earlier but the feelings were finally returned on the set of the fantasy movie, "Willow."  Kilmer only touches on their divorce, though, saying their careers kept them apart too much. 

Like with his illness, we guess there is so much to say, he opted to say little.

Kilmer's footage from his movie sets will probably get the most attention, and there is a lot of juicy stuff there that's never been seen before. He talks frankly about his thrills and disappointments, the times he was absolutely dialed into a role ("Tombstone," "The Doors") and when he had emotionally checked out or clashed with the cast and crew.

He hated wearing the Batman costume because he couldn't move his body or his face, and felt like a high-paid mannequin. He was as gobmacked as anyone by the international success of "Top Gun." He knew from the get-go that "The Island of Dr. Moreau" was doomed when the director was replaced by old-school John Frankenheimer, who expected his actors to hit their marks, say their lines and otherwise be quiet. 

In one exchange, Frankenheimer demands that Kilmer stop filming him while he's trying to film the actors for a rehearsal, and it's clear Kilmer is egging him on. (Repeatedly stating in calm tones that he can't work because he's in a "highly emotional state.") No doubt things like this contributed to the mounting narrative that Kilmer was a "difficult" actor to work with.

Kilmer was crushed that he finally had a chance to work on "Moreau" with his cinematic hero, Marlon Brando, but the swollen icon was so at odds with Frankenheimer that he barely bothered to show up -- as a thespian, or even in person. We learn that a stand-in named Norm was slathered up in Brando's freakish makeup and outfits for many shots. 

(**Pop quiz answers: Josh Hartnett's last credit was a bit part in "Wrath of Man," Diaz retired after "Annie" in 2014 and Garner, outside of asking people what's in their wallet in commercials, was last in "Yes Day." If you got any of these correct, you win my admiration because I had to look them up.)

It would be interesting to know how to attribute the creative efforts of this film. It would seem to be "authored" by Kilmer himself, since he shot nearly all the footage and is listed as the cinematographer and a producer. Ting Poo and Leo Scott are officially the directors, though they've never directed anything before and are veteran editors whose biggest contribution was poring through the mountain of tapes to shape it into some kind of meaningful narrative.

The image that comes into focus is of a playful artist who fell in love with acting at an early age, then suffered disappointment and withdrawal when the reality of the movie business left him unsatisfied. Now the prize, once grasped, then tarnished, is out of reach forever.

He tries to hold onto the good things, with wavering success. Kilmer is seen making paid appearances at comic-cons and screenings of his old films. He's not ashamed of how he looks or how he sounds, though he knows it comes as a shock to people. He'll sit in a room for hours, doling out autographs until the line ends... sooner than you'd think.

I've often wondered how fading celebrities really feel about this bottom-drawer stuff, recording personalized video messages or signing your name for dollars. And here is Kilmer to tell us:

"Sometimes I feel low and have the blues really, really hard about, y'know, having to fly around the country. I don't look great and I'm selling basically my old self, my old career," he says after introducing a drive-in showing of "Top Gun," wandering away into the shadows because, we suspect, he doesn't want to behold his old self.

But then he thinks about how happy it seems to make his fans, even in his deteriorated state -- and that means something. Something good, something worth holding onto. "I feel really grateful rather than humiliated."

Val Kilmer soared among the highest celestial reaches of Hollywood, a place most actors only get to gaze upon with envy. "Val" is an authentic self-portrait of someone who spent his life pretending to be somebody else, now on the glide path downward -- determined to enjoy ever minute he's still flying.