I was born in 1994, so I was but a measly one-year-old infant when Heat came to theatres. But I, like pretty much every other person who’s seen the film, can agree that Michael Mann’s Los Angeles epic is the greatest heist movie ever made. Not only did the opening scene directly influence the opening heist scene in The Dark Knight, but it also inspired the majority of the Grand Theft Auto V video game and also resulted in a real-life heist and police shootout on the streets of North Hollywood in 1997 that shook the entire nation. But most importantly, it starred the, now recently deceased, Val Kilmer in (at least in my opinion) his greatest, most memorable role.
The early ’90s belonged to Val Kilmer. He began the decade starring as rock legend Jim Morrison in Oliver Stone’s The Doors, and although there are many rightful criticisms about the film itself, the one undeniable standout is Kilmer’s symbiotic performance as the legendary rock icon. His singing was so similar to the original leather-pants-wearing Lizard King that the band’s original members – John Densmore, Ray Manzarek, and Robby Krieger – couldn’t tell the difference between Morrison and Kilmer singing. That’s quite the praise.
Then, in 1995, he got the role of Bruce Wayne/Batman in Batman Forever (contrary to popular opinion, I actually like this movie, at least a lot more than George Clooney’s attempt in the sequel, Batman & Robin), and his most iconic, most memorable film ever, Heat.
(Warning: there will be spoilers from here on out, so if you haven’t seen the film, go watch it now.)
What separates Heat from every other cops & robbers film is that it paints the most objective, unjudgemental take on the characters in the film. Yes, it’s about cops trying to take down bank robbers, but at its core, it’s about the fear of human connection, a familiar thread in every one of Mann’s films. And the most tragic character of them all is arguably Chris, played by Kilmer with his iconic, blonde ponytail. Chris—unlike DeNiro’s Neil, who is an isolated island of a man and doesn’t even have a single piece of furniture in his house—has a wife, a kid, and somewhere inside, still dreams of a life with the white picket fence, despite his undeniable flaws and corrupt line of work. Neil is the clear mastermind, but Chris is his loyal sidekick and does everything in his power to salute the requests of his hardened, no B.S., no romance, ringleader.
The film’s famous shootout in downtown Los Angeles, where Val Kilmer and Robert DeNiro nearly take down the entire LAPD, helmed by an equally tortured soul in Al Pacino, is the stuff of cinema legend. Quentin Tarantino called it “One of the most intense action sequences in film history.” Adding to the badassery of this scene, Val Kilmer’s ability to reload a machine gun within seconds was so impressive that the US military showed this clip during training videos. Watch director Michael Mann discussing the famous scene below, followed by the diretor’s official Instagram paying tribute to the late actor.
The one criticism of the film is its nearly three-hour running time, something Tarantino echoes, saying that, “After the bank heist, the film never really reaches those same heights again, and everything after that just feels like an extended epilogue.”
This sentiment is felt by many, but I’d have to vehemently disagree. The heist is insanely intense, and you’re almost glad when it finally finishes, simply because you can finally breathe normally again and stop hyperventilating. But the aftermath, much like that final scene in The Graduate (1968), asks the question: What now? Everything we had is all gone, and nothing will ever be the same. After taking out half of the LAPD, Kilmer and DeNiro’s teammate, Michael, played by Tom Sizemore, is gunned down by Pacino. Kilmer gets shot and nearly dies. Kilmer’s wife, played by Ashley Judd, is taken into police custody and told that in order to avoid jail herself, she must rat out her husband. DeNiro doesn’t know what to do about the one romantic relationship he’s ever had in his life as he still has one final score to settle. And Pacino’s marriage is a complete disaster, followed by his stepdaughter, played by a young Natalie Portman, also nearly dying. I couldn’t think of a more horrible, anxious way to navigate through life, and we’re forced to watch these characters—both good guys and bad—deal with the consequences of their chosen line of work.
“I don’t know how to do anything else,” Pacino tells DeNiro in the iconic diner scene, the first time the two actors were ever on screen together.
“Neither do I,” says DeNiro.
“I don’t much want to either,” says Pacino.
“Neither do I,” DeNiro repeats.
DeNiro and Pacino’s respective characters are given more backstory, and as an audience, perhaps one can feel more for them. But with Pacino fatally shooting DeNiro in the final scene, there’s a cathartic moment for DeNiro, as he tells the victorious Pacino, “I told you I wasn’t going back (to jail).” In the romantic crucible of film, death—especially for the antihero—is always heroic.
Kilmer, however, gets away in the end, and his wife successfully lies to the police in assisting his escape. But what does he escape with? His life, sure, but an empty one at that. In the first clip I posted above, DeNiro tells Kilmer, “Allow nothing in your life that you can’t run out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.” Kilmer responds with, “The sun rises and sets with her, man,” referring to his wife, the one thing separating him from being a completely irredemable, gun wielding menace. Kilmer had love in his heart, meaning that a symbolic death was a much more heartbreaking and effective climax for him rather than a physical one. Sure, he didn’t wind up in the morgue, but what could really be waiting for him on the other side of “freedom”? His friends are dead. His family is now permanently deleted from his life, and he’ll spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulders for the heat, who will presumably not stop until they find him.
Everything after the shoot out is Mann showing the audience what happens when you fly too close to the sun, when you nearly have it all, only to lose everything.
The punk band, The Dead Kennedys, released an album called “Give me Convenience or Give me Death.” I think it’s safe to assume we all know what path the characters in Heat chose to pursue.
Much has been said about the diva, Icarus-like behaviour that consumed Kilmer in the late ’90s and for the rest of his career, which subsequently led to Hollywood turning him into a pariah. Although that may be true (naturally, I wasn’t there), I’ll remember him fondly for his contributions to my favourite medium: film.
I was lucky enough to see Heat at the Prince Charles Cinema just a few years ago in London, and the place was completely sold out; about 80% of the people in attendance were men. The massive screen and surround sound made the gunshots feel like you were directly in the action—a stark contrast to watching at home—and cheers, shouts, claps, and gasps were heard every few seconds, myself included. When the film ended and the lights turned on, I could see the sweat and tears on every single man leaving the theatre. What is it about this film that gets to the core of every man who’s viewed it? From brick layers to accountants, from painters to astronauts, Heat strikes a nerve when we realise the sacrifice we have to make to not be an island. Death is an escape, as Neil finds out. Chris, however, will be in prison for the rest of his life, just not in a physical one.
Here is an old Reddit post from Val Kilmer years ago that I came across today after reading about his untimely death. In it, he discussed the joys of working on that iconic film. If you haven’t seen it, go watch it now. And if you have seen it, go watch it again. It’s stylistic, it’s cool, it’s emotional, but most of all, it’s the “strong, silent type” Tony Soprano, and probably most of us, long to be, even if we don’t admit it.
Thank you for your art, Val Kilmer. RIP.
