“They should definitely kiss,” I whisper to my sister, as we watch Top Gun with our parents for the first time.
I am obviously not talking about the pair who Tony Scott probably wants us to root for, as, I’m sorry, I think Kelly McGillis’s character is completely delusional for having any remote interest in Pete Mitchell. Rather, I’m talking about the undeniable homoerotic tension between Tom Cruise’s Maverick and Val Kilmer’s Iceman.
As Quentin Tarantino’s Sid in Sleep With Me so eagerly discusses, Top Gun is “one of the greatest scripts ever written and it is about a man struggling with his own homosexuality”. I agree, I mean, have you even seen the film? The gay undertones scream at you as loud as RuPaul laughs. But it doesn’t matter to me whether you want to pretend that this is a straight film, a simple remnant of 80s “jock culture”, that is your choice. What I need to discuss with you is Val Kilmer’s performance.
It was reported that Juilliard-trained actor Val Kilmer did not want to be involved with Top Gun, yet as the studio “forced” him into it, it was then that Kilmer wanted to give his character some depth. Therefore, he decided (although probably through a much more formal thought process), “I want to play him gay!” Through scenes like the volleyball game, shots of sweaty locker rooms, and dialogue that could be interpreted in many different ways (“you can be my wingman anytime” oh I’m sure), Kilmer produced a character that audiences can now infer to have homosexual inclinations and is a large reason fans on Reddit have called the film “the most effectively queercoded take down of toxic masculinity [they] have ever seen.”
But this is what I would deem null representation. It can be seen as a much-needed expression of diversity for that era, yet its unofficial status undermines its impact. Would it have been better for Iceman to be portrayed as explicitly gay? If we were to view Top Gun as an extended metaphor for the internal struggles of coming to terms with homosexuality, then it would be glaringly obvious and unartistic to make a character actually gay. It would defeat the purpose of the metaphor, as it would seem one of the only true “satisfying” endings for Maverick to come to terms with his own homosexuality would be to physically pursue it (preferably with Iceman). But if only the actor made the conscious decision to try and play him as a homosexual man, despite writers insisting that subtext can only be inferred and it was never purposefully written, does Kilmer’s nuanced performance really have any significance?
I think it is easy to look back in our modern era and denounce the lack of explicit representation in the past. But does the problem not still live on? I would say, particularly in male friendships, there is a lot of “invisible” representation and implications. For example, if I were to ask your thoughts on everyone’s favourite Roman and Cowboy duo, Octavius and Jebediah, from the Night at the Museum franchise, how long would it take for you to mention that they could be seen as in love? Even Steve Coogan commented that their relationship “might read as a subtle homoerotic subtext.” They suffer under the terrible paradox, where you could infer homoerotic undertones and that be seen as a wasted opportunity for explicit representation, but in turn this could demean male friendships, where even platonic intimacy is a hushed-up subject within our modern society. Bill and Will, the krill from Happy Feet 2, Mike and Bill from IT Chapter 2, Poe and Finn from the Star Wars sequels – men never seem to rarely be seen as just friends, without some fans creating elaborate homoerotic backstories for them.
While it’s easy to critique the absence of explicit representation, there’s an equally pressing issue of conflating all forms of deep male connection with romantic or sexual undertones. The remnants of the Hays Code era, which censored overt displays of queerness, forced filmmakers to rely on subtext to explore complex identities. While this resulted in some brilliantly nuanced performances, it also left a legacy of coded representation that persists today. This creates a double bind: on one hand, audiences hungry for representation may claim these moments as victories, but on the other, it risks reinforcing the idea that two men showing vulnerability or affection must automatically signal queerness. The true challenge lies in dismantling the societal norms that stigmatize platonic male intimacy while advocating for authentic and overt LGBTQ+ representation – not as subtext, but as a celebrated part of mainstream storytelling.
But sometimes, deep in my selfish heart, I wish Iceman and Maverick had kissed, just to let Kilmer speak his truth when he claims that this could be seen as his “first gay role.”
In light of Val Kilmer’s recent passing, I would also like to finish this article with my condolences towards Kilmer’s family and to fans across the globe. Rest in peace, Val Kilmer. Your artistry and spirit will never be forgotten.
Photo by Natalie Chaney on Unsplash