I'm Your Huckleberry

by Val Kilmer

  Director Michael Apted had just prior to our film done a documentary, narrated by Robert Redford, Incident at Oglala, about two FBI agents who had been shot at the Pine Ridge reservation. Thunderheart drew on that troubling episode as well as the Wounded Knee occupation in the seventies, which underscored the repeated injustices suffered by Native Americans.

  I was also pleased and honored because this, in the early nineties, was to be the inaugural film from TriBeCa, the newly formed production house run by Robert De Niro and Jane Rosenthal. Uninvited, I was always writing and rewriting roles in movies, my own roles and roles for others. After reading Thunderheart, I wrote a part in the film for Brando.

  I thought back to high school, when I watched the 1973 Academy Awards live broadcast from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown Los Angeles. Liv Ullmann and Roger Moore announced that Marlon Brando had won best actor for The Godfather. But Brando didn’t accept the award. He refused to attend. In his place he sent to the podium the radiant Sacheen Littlefeather, an Apache actress and activist who, with great poise, announced that Brando was rejecting the Oscar in protest of our treatment of Native Americans. Some booed. Others heckled. Later that evening Clint Eastwood joked while presenting the Best Picture award that he was doing so on behalf of all the cowboys shot in John Ford films. He saw Marlon’s ploy as a joke. I saw it as heroism.

  Marlon was my guy. It wasn’t about being flawlessly eloquent like Laurence Olivier or John Gielgud. It wasn’t about being suave like Cary Grant or homespun like Gary Cooper. It was about the power of silence. The long, pregnant pause. The understatement. The boiling subtext. The unexpressed. The mystery. The mumbling. Trying as we all do in life to make sense of a moment. The rage that remains inside. The penetrating look. Eyes slightly shifting. Lips slightly curling. The beauty of subterfuge.

  That same year Marlon told the Academy to screw themselves, he came on a TV talk show where host Dick Cavett asked him why he had so often belittled the art of acting. Brando’s unexpected retort still serves to keep me sane. “We couldn’t survive a second,” he said, “if we weren’t able to act… acting is a survival mechanism… we act to save our lives.”

  Well, in the year of Thunderheart, I was set to save Marlon. Like so many of us, he had suffered financial setbacks. He needed cash, and I was determined to rush to his rescue. Given his passion for indigenous people, I knew he’d be perfect as the crusading head of the FBI. I worked for weeks writing and rewriting scenes for Marlon. I polished the dialogue to a high gleam. I really pushed it with De Niro, whom I considered a friend. Despite his extreme need for privacy, Bob had let me into his perfectionist world. I begged him to read the scenes I had custom-crafted for Brando. I sent Bob notes. I called him dozens of times, until the day of reckoning. I was on the phone with Bob, passionately arguing how Brando could transform this film. Bob is always silent, but this time he was so stone silent. Finally, he uttered the words:

  “Val,” he said emphatically, “Marlon Brando. Is. Not. Going. To. Be. In this movie.”

  As aggravating as it was not to play beside Brando, it was thrilling to play beside Sam Shepard, who wrote as well as he acted and did both with a natural ease that turns me green with envy. The envy never lasted long because I loved Sam. I loved him for his adventurous spirit, his big heart, and inventive mind. I miss him every day of my life. In Thunderheart, Sam and I played complicated characters. I could—and did—spend lots of time talking about all this with Sam. I can easily get wrapped up in character dissection. It’s fun. And in doing character analysis, I admit, I am not immune to falling in love with my analysis. Not so with Sam. Sam wasn’t a talker. He was a thinker, a drinker, a homespun yet sophisticated philosopher, but was never in love with the sound of his own voice. Fewer words, the better.

  With Sam Shepard in Thunderheart

  One late evening in the middle of production he had had enough of my ponderous overthinking.

  “It goes like this, Val,” he said. “I’m the bad guy. You’re the good guy.”

  That shut me up but good. The film was shot in South Dakota on the Lakota reservation. I went to many ceremonies and became friends for life with many beautiful families. I made it clear I had to be home by summer’s end. That’s because I was going to be a father. One of the most glorious moments of my life was about to unfold.

  Colic Convulsion Then Holy Miracle

  Like millions of others, Joanne and I began reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting the moment we learned she was pregnant. I wanted to know everything. I did not want to be like one of those dads banished before the birth of their baby who wind up at bars or brothels or tobacco shops buying cigars for their cronies. I wanted to study the process, and I also did not want to know the sex. We wanted to relish the unknown of every single day of gestation. I also thought it was important that my normally fit body not be fit at all. I decided to gain weight, not to equal Joanne’s weight, but at least enough to engender empathy. What’s it like to have your body radically change? What does that do to your head and your heart and your sense of self?

  Joanne and I both felt a home birth with a midwife was perfect for our rustic lifestyle.

  The problem was that the midwife didn’t really like me. It was a moment when I saw the growing imbalance in our marriage. My desire to be a dad was all-consuming, yet that desire went unrecognized. I nonetheless inserted myself into this gestation period with joyous intensity. The closer we came to the birth, the more excited we grew.

  October 1991. The final weeks. We had moved from my original rented quarters in Tesque, an extremely beautiful little suburb just outside the city limits of Santa Fe to our very first home, its ample grounds within earshot of the city’s famous outdoor opera venue. In the distance, we could almost make out Verdi or Puccini wafting in over the summer breeze. The air was chilled and the earth blanketed in snow when Joanne’s water broke. I figured this was it. Except it wasn’t. The midwife said that yes, labor had begun, but labor could well linger a long while. Some women lie down. Some women eat; some bathe in warm water. Joanne wanted to walk. Walking, she felt, would facilitate things. Oh, did we walk! Walked for one day, then a second, then a third. Even as contractions ensued, we kept walking. Walking miles and miles. Joanne was intrepid, almost to a fault. On the third day of our walking routine, we went to the stable that was part of our compound, where, coincidentally, Apple, Joanne’s favorite horse, was colicking. With all four legs, she kicked at her stomach. Joanne knew instantly her horse was in danger of dying. Alarmed for her horse, Joanne ran over to her. Alarmed for my wife and our child, I ran over to Joanne. It was hell pulling her away from the manic horse, but I managed. The horse’s distress had thrown Joanne into a state of delirium. I called a vet and the horse was eventually saved, which was a great relief to us both.

  Back at the house, nearing the end of three days of intense labor, walking what felt like could have been twenty miles during contractions, I dropped the home-birth plan and decided to drive Joanne to the hospital. Ms. Midwife said no. I had to get right up in her grill and make it plain she was not the boss in our home. She followed us to the hospital. I managed to get Joanne into a four-wheel drive. Now, the snow was coming down in sheets, but I was prepared. I knew the regular roads could become impassable and had the back roads mapped out. We made it. Our baby was born. I was the first to hold her. I cut the cord. We wept. Our Mercedes! Precious angel, gift of God. We knew our lives would be changed, our capacities for Love expanded. When I asked the nurse where my bed was, she thought I was kidding. Apparently no new dad had ever made such a request. After a few hours, she brought me up a piece of old foam rubber and a used blanket. I slept on the linoleum floor.

  And though I tried to get in there—to change and bathe the baby, to cuddle and kiss her and sing sweet lullabies in her tiny ear—it was as though this was women’s work. My maternal instincts were manifesting like crazy but so often had to be suppressed. In the end, I did become a hands-on and ado
ring dad, but never to the degree I desired. But I have faith. I am still trying to be the best dad I can be.

  Doc Holidays

  I’m proud of the work I did on Billy the Kid, a made-for-TV Western written by Gore Vidal, the towering member of the literati. In thinking about the role, I may have had in mind Brando’s Kid Rio, the hero of the only movie Marlon ever directed, One Eyed Jacks. That film was made when I was an infant. When I was an adult and Brando’s friend, he told me that at some point every film actor must make a Western. When I asked him why, he answered with his famous half smile and the words, “You know damn well why.”

  I presume the why has to do with basic Americanism. One way or the other, Americans have to deal with the West and its glorious, sordid, and sadistic past. Marlon knew that the West represents both our territorial salvation and our mortal sin, our gain and our greed. We fought lawlessness to create an even more lawless law, one that excused and perpetuated genocide. Even today, this gun-obsessed nation that we love remains enmired in a dilemma centered on pistols and rifles with romantic ties to our murderous past. We love Westerns. We learn everything from Westerns and yet learn nothing from them. We continue killing ourselves in unconscionable ways. The archetype of the gunslinger, played with a naturalism that only Brando could invoke, is ever present. I could never give up the chance to play such a character. That’s why when I had the chance to play Doc Holliday, I grabbed it.

  I’ve entitled this tome I’m Your Huckleberry for many reasons. I like the unintentional echo of Huckleberry Finn, which is my favorite novel and features my favorite character. I also realize that the line that I, playing the diseased Doc Holliday, articulated has become iconic. I speak it before shooting to death the fearsome Johnny Ringo, played by Michael Biehn. By the way, despite some fans’ contention that in the 1800s the handles of caskets were called huckles and thus the word huckle bearer was a term for pall bearer, I do not say, “I’m your huckle bearer.” I say, “I’m your huckleberry,” connotating, “I’m your man. You’ve met your match.”

  In trying to understand the character of Doc Holliday, it’s important to remember he’s a fallen aristocrat, frustrated by his inability to express his authentic self. His greatest retribution for this loss was his caustic wit. His tongue is more lethal than his pistol. Throughout the drama, he’s dying of both drink and tuberculosis. In playing him, I thought of what my dear friend the great screenplay writer Robert Towne had taught me: all insightful dialogue comes out of situations, not predeveloped thought. In that regard, I saw Doc’s situation as dire. I also saw his action as defiance in the face of death. I loved him.

  My castmates were wonderful—Kurt Russell as Wyatt Earp, and Sam Elliott and Bill Paxton as his brothers—and the experience was profound. I had read only half of Kevin Jarre’s brilliant screenplay before I made up my mind to accept the role. That’s happened only two other times in my career (with Batman and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang). When I take on a part, I usually read the script many times before reciting a word out loud.

  With Kurt Russell as Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday

  I was especially attuned to the rhythms of Doc’s speech, so much so that I called Kevin with the most specific of questions. I said, “There’s a comma on page thirty-two where I don’t think Doc needs to pause. Wouldn’t it be more effective if he simply drew out the line?”

  “When you get more into the drawl,” said Kevin, “you’ll find that the pause is right.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am,” said Kevin. He was. And he was in no mood to argue about a comma. The fact that Kevin proved to be right—the comma was necessary to that musicality—shows that sometimes the writer hears his creation with greater acuity than the actor. Sometimes.

  Rehearsals were hilarious. There were five or six actors who had played leads in blockbusters. Many times very small parts seemed to become what the whole film was about.

  Fortunately, my wife and daughter were on set. Our little girl glowed; she was radiant and adorable and won the hearts of the entire crew. Everyone wanted to play with Mercedes. All went well until the first day of shooting. Moments of mystical wonderment morphed into a filmmaking fiasco.

  Kurt Russell and I were on horses. Horses are always tricky. They want to move. They do move. Even super-skilled riders like me and Kurt had to listen to the whims of our steeds, and this day they were trying to tell us something. Writer Kevin Jarre was directing. Before Kevin said, “Action,” I looked up and saw a bald eagle flying straight to the heavens holding a rattlesnake in his talons. In midflight, another magnificent bald eagle snatched the slithering snake. Both eagles flew higher and higher, passing the rattler back and forth in a rare mating dance. I was stunned. I was moved. It was a moment of glory—like a total eclipse of the sun. It had origins in the folklore of Native Americans. In the green, white, and red flag of Mexico an eagle sitting upon a prickly pear has a rattlesnake ensnared in its talons. The eagle is strength, the sacred snake is knowledge, the pear is life itself. The symbolism of what I had been blessed to witness was overwhelming.

  And then Kevin Jarre shouted, “Action!” The problem was, there was no shot. Kevin had positioned the camera at an untenable angle. It seemed to me that Kevin, great writer though he was, didn’t know much about directing. Kurt looked me straight in the eye and said, “Val, we’re in trouble.” I had to say something. I did, as gently as possible, but there was no way my remarks didn’t reveal Kevin’s ineptitude. He didn’t last long. Blockbuster director George Cosmatos was brought in. Dozens of cast and crew members were canned. It was an unholy mess. I teamed up with Kurt to edit long sections of the script, because the studio couldn’t give us any more time or money and we were already a month into shooting, which we now had to make up for. It’s amazing the film turned out as well as it did.

  On set with Mercedes

  I cherish the experience of working with Kurt, whom I love like a brother. When the Academy widens their awards to include something like the lifetime achievement award for Best, Most Unique, Lovely Person for Decades in a Row, if Kurt isn’t the first recipient, I’ll eat my Doc Holliday hat. The film has a cult following, as does my beloved Doc. And though I ducked under the radar of major Hollywood nods of approval, I got a tip of the hat from the golden prince of the West himself, Mr. Bob Dylan.

  I’d known Bob since a mutual friend introduced us, right after The Doors. I ran into him in London when he was hanging with Ronnie Wood, a hell of a talent and free spirit I’ve known and loved forever. When Bob saw me, he turned and, like a laser printer, spat out the funniest line I had ever heard about The Doors:

  “Hey… I hear you did that thing about that guy…”

  And I said, “Yes, I am now fiddling with your world as well,” referring to the many offers I had to cut my own record after singing every song in the film live.

  Bob shot back as soon as I said fiddle—and you have to imagine his completely unique voice and delivery—“What, oh you playing the fiddle now, is that what you said?” He glanced like an impish genius child to Ronnie for rock icon reinforcement.

  “No, no,” I replied. “I mean I am messing around with music now. Might make a record.”

  Bob smiled. “ ’Cause you know fiddling… that’s a tough road to hoe, man. Fiddling. Lots of competition.”

  Bob is absolutely driven. A hurricane of intense, quiet energy. If you want to know who he is at the moment, listen to how he interprets his songs at a concert today, and you’ll see his soul.

  Well, years later, I was in New York with my wife and little angel Mercedes and heard Bob was in town, so I called him. For some reason we were being put up by Warner Bros. at the swanky Pierre on Fifth. Not our style at all. Bob was across town in a hip, discreet hotel when he picked up. Hard to describe the thrill of hearing his voice and literally feeling his rhythm.

  “Hey, man, that Doc Holliday…”

  I couldn’t believe it. Then… then he tried to be me as Doc. “Why, John
ny Ringo, you look like someone just walked over your grave.” And then he giggled. I don’t know if there’s footage of his giggle but there’s plenty of him smirk-laughing, and it’s worth the price of admission.

  I responded, “Yeah, it was a lot of fun. The writer laid it all out there for me. But thank you. What brings you to New York, Bob?”

  “I’m recording an Elvis song for a charity thing with Eric Clapton and Sheryl Crow.”

  “Have you picked a song yet?”

  “A couple. You want to come by, Val?”

  “Love to.”

  “You’re a daisy if you do!” Bob chirped back.

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Nothing, doing nothing.” More glorious laughter.

  “You’re welcome to come here, Bob. We’re at the Pierre. Under the name of…”

  “Doc Holliday. Wyatt, you’re an oak. I’m your huckleberry.”

  I hung up blushing and whispered to my wife, “I’m not sure this isn’t a dream, but I think Bob Dylan is on his way here.”

  Joanne is extremely hard to impress. She was impressed. She said, “That’s something. How?”

  “He loves Doc Holliday.”

  In what felt like five minutes, the doorbell rang, and Bob was on the other side in a pin-striped Western jacket. He whispered, “Ain’t you gonna say nothin’ from that movie?”

  “Sure, right after you sing me ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ ”

  Why did I say that?!

  Maybe I was nervous.

  Maybe I was starstruck.