Be more like Val: The case for wild, uncompromising authenticity

I became friends with Val Kilmer because of Hawaiian shirts. Not just any Hawaiian shirts, the worst ones, the most garish, the most unapologetically absurd. It became our game, a competition of who could find and wear the most outrageous, retina-burning masterpiece. And that, right there, is who Val was to me: wild, fun, deep, mad, and genius all at the same time.

 

But most of all, he was authentic.

 

And let’s not bullshit each other, authenticity isn’t easy. It’s not neat. It’s not designed for comfort. It’s messy, defiant, sometimes arrogant. But it’s real.

 

Val was never interested in playing the game the way you’re supposed to. He wasn’t built for easy, and he sure as hell wasn’t built for safe. He didn’t chase likability, he chased truth. He didn’t soften his edges to fit into a mould. He carved new ones, sometimes with a blunt instrument. He didn’t pander to the industry’s expectations, he rewrote them.

And that’s exactly what brands, creatives, and leaders should be doing. Not trying to be loved by everyone, not designing for mass approval, but chasing something that matters, something that can’t be faked.

 

Our Hawaiian shirt rivalry wasn’t just about bad fashion choices; it was about freedom, about refusing to conform to what was expected. It was a statement that said: We don’t have to take this all so seriously. Brands could learn a lot from that. Because the ones that thrive aren’t the ones obsessing over market research and corporate-approved messaging. They’re the ones that show up, warts and all, and say, This is who we are. Take it or leave it.

 

And let’s be honest, we are living in an age of average, an age of brand homogeny. Too many brands are clinging to safety, hoping that if they don’t rock the boat, they won’t sink. But the truth is, playing it safe is the riskiest move of all. In a world drowning in sameness, being distinct, being real, being more like Val isn’t just a bold choice, it’s the only choice if you want to survive, let alone grow your bottom line.

 

Nike didn’t check the pulse of social media before standing behind Colin Kaepernick. They committed. Patagonia didn’t brand sustainability as a trend; they built their entire business on it. These brands are more than just companies, they are convictions wrapped in fabric and code. They don’t just show up in the cultural conversation; they belong there because they’ve earned it.

 

Val didn’t just play characters, he became them. He didn’t just act; he transformed, shape-shifting into souls that left scars on film. That kind of commitment is rare. It’s dangerous. It’s beautiful. And it’s something brands, creatives, and leaders should be striving for: the refusal to phone it in, the willingness to burn bright, even at the risk of burning out.

 

In advertising, in branding, in business, we see too many safe bets, too many calculated plays designed to minimise risk. But where’s the soul in that? Where’s the poetry? The teacup spinning mid-air? The work that makes people feel something?

 

Val lost his voice, but he never lost his story. When cancer stole his ability to speak, he didn’t disappear—he found another way. He made his life into art, raw and vulnerable. He turned his struggle into something powerful, something that still speaks, even in silence.

 

That’s what great brands do. They don’t crumble when things get hard. They adapt. They keep showing up. They don’t just sell a product, they sell a worldview, a way of moving through the world that says, This is who we are. And we’re not afraid to stand by it.

 

So here’s the lesson: Stop chasing safe. Stop softening your edges to appeal to the masses. Stop designing work that blends in. Have the guts to be undeniable, to stand for something so deeply that people either love you or don’t get you at all.

 

Because if everyone likes you, you’re probably doing it wrong.

 

Raise your standard. Be bolder. Be weirder. Be the version of yourself that scares people a little. Be more like Val.

Because Val wouldn’t want your tears. He’d want your truth.