Val Kilmer was, as many an obituary reminds us today, the poster boy for “difficult actor.”

A true maverick, particular and ever-so-serious about his art, probably taking too many “go your own way” lessons from his idol, the post-peak Marlon Brando, he dazzled in some roles and probably should have dazzled in more. But he argued himself out of jobs and “Tombstone,” “The Doors,” “Heat,” “The Ghost and the Darkness,” “Alexander,” “Spartan” and “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang” weren’t repeated dozens of times, as they might have been.

I interviewed him once when “Wonderland,” a lesser effort in which he managed to make a good impression. But the real delight of his later years was this wonderful, self-explantory, self-mocking memoir that came out back in 2020.

Track down “I’m Your Huckleberry” (here’s a link to my review of that) and you’ll have an appreciation for how he turned out the way he did, a mercurial talent who wore out his Hollywood welcome long before his health faded. He was a real character. RIP.