In the pantheon of failed leading men, few movie stars get as bad a rap as Val Kilmer. From the brilliant comedic turns of his youth in films like Real Genius to his later, robust character actor work in roles like Tombstone’s Doc Holliday, Kilmer was always a top talent, but his work in the nineties as a star isn’t remembered quite as fondly. It’s a good thing that he stopped giving a fuck, gained weight and went the Alec Baldwin route, but there was a short period where his eccentric acting style perfectly meshed with his marquee looks. The underrated zenith of this short lived moment is on display in 1997’s The Saint.
Bowing out of a second turn as the Dark Knight after Batman Forever, Kilmer chose to play Simon Templar in this Phillip Noyce adaptation, based on the same Leslie Charteris stories that inspired the famous Roger Moore TV series. The worst thing you could say about Kilmer’s Batman was its relative blandness, but the Bat films always gave more country to the villains than the caped crusader. Here, Kilmer thought the opportunity to jetset around the globe in exponentially more absurd disguises would give him a better chance to spread his wings. He was right, up to a point.
The Saint doesn’t much resemble the television series it shares a namesake with, instead playing like a dramatic version of Kilmer’s Top Secret. Templar, a high tech industrial thief, cosplays as various alter egos, each named for different Catholic saints, a guilty nod to his parochial school upbringing. He uses believably futuristic devices to perform his heists, then falls back on deception and manipulation to spirit away with the loot. In modern spy-fi terms, he splits the difference between the sexual proclivity of James Bond and the precise tactical subterfuge of Ethan Hunt. Moreso than any of his other leading roles, Kilmer seems to be having a blast here, relishing the versatility required to breathe life into each disguise, even as their ubiquity begins to tax credulity.
The plot, by comparison, is pretty paint-by-numbers. The MacGuffin of choice here is the formula for cold fusion, an alternative energy source billionaire oil magnate Ivan Tretiak (Rade Šerbedžija) wants Templar to steal so he can become Russia’s new leader. Templar goes about his usual methods to get the formula from scientist Emma Russell (Elisabeth Shue), but because this is a movie, he falls in love with her. Things get complicated from there, both emotionally for these conflicted lovebirds and physically, as Tretiak tries to have Templar killed and Russell kidnapped because the formula is incomplete. It’s a reliably straightforward framework that actually frees up the film’s performers to do some truly fascinating character work.
Spy thrillers rarely make any kind of effort within the obligatory, shoe-horned love story, but Kilmer and Shue both delivery sterling performances in this regard. They’re both playing pretty threadbare archetypes, but their unconventional screen presence allows for just enough deviation from the routine to create real sincerity. When Templar has to ensnare Russell, he doesn’t just bed her and steal her shit. He creepily studies her by going through her apartment and personalizes a disguise designed specifically for her, his artsy, long haired Afrikaner, Thomas More. This is a movie where the lead character traps the love interest with a planted journal of fake poetry.
There’s even a moment, after Russell unknowingly sees through his deception and offers insight into the real Templar based off of his verses, where Templar storms away, faking inebriation, and cuts his forehead to mimic having smashed a bottle over his own head. It’s a nauseating kind of scheme, but when Kilmer looks up before digging the blade in and asks himself what the fuck he’s doing, he sells real guilt, real inner conflict. Likewise, Shue has a nervous energy about her that sets her apart from other, similar love interests who amount to little more than eye candy.
Ultimately, a lot is left on the table with the background political commentary on post-Cold War Russia, but as a visual backdrop, Noyce milks the cold, gray fallen empire for all its worth. Again, the action is just a notch above serviceable and the only plot turns that have any real impact are ones based around Kilmer’s uncanny chameleon theatrics. Still, there’s a unique aura pervading every scene in The Saint. Over the next twenty or so years, spy thrillers have become more and more blunt, with sullen cyphers like Jason Bourne for protagonists. There’ve undoubtedly been better movies in the genre since, but none balanced mainstream thrills with art house eccentricity quite like this.
The Saint didn’t leave enough of a pop cultural footprint to start a franchise, but its structure lit a fuse for Kilmer to showcase his flexibility in a way few other roles have since.
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