What does Salvadore Allende’s 9/11, Hank Williams, the JFK assassination, and an empathy for insects have in common? How does a stable democracy result in homosexuality, which leads, eventually, to fine quality cheeses? Writer-director hyphenate Martin McDonagh is here to tell all in Wild Horse Nine, a 1973 period piece buddy comedy spy film about mortality, which takes place mainly on tiny Easter Island.
The film often plays like a superficially connected alternate-universe Burn After Reading (arguably the Coen’s most underrated and dismissed film) prequel, or sequel, or side-quel. But whatever. The point is, John Malkovich’s aging spy, Chris, is writing his memoirs on decades of destabilizing democracy, while on both a death-wish and a vacation, and it is going to be irreverent as fuck. On either PC or Mac. (Neither of which have been invented yet.)
In a state of early onset dementia, and also the advanced stages of a serious cancer (the movie variety, which causes the afflicted to cough up blood on white handkerchiefs) with a heroin addiction to boot, Chris’s dying wish is to be accompanied by his CIA coworker and only friend, Lee (Sam Rockwell) to ‘see the big heads.’ The titular free-roaming equines are merely an unexpected bonus that delights Chris to no end.
Chris wants Lee to put him out of his misery, afterwards. Literally, figuratively, take your pick. Or it is all a double-cross from their boss MJ (Steve Buscemi, sporting a colonial-coded pinstriped white suit, and a highly-suspect moustache) to get Lee to see if Chris is serious about putting pen to paper (or rather voice to tape) in an expose that would bust the JFK conspiracy investigations wide open?
McDonagh is less interested in the plotting (though being in the espionage genre, the film has a number of obligatory twists and turns, and a fair amount of set-up / pay-off structure) than exploring how two very different men with serious down time, in and out of their element and location, express their complex (always unspoken) feelings towards one another. Yes, this recalls In Bruges (of which I am a fan) in basic concept, but it plays out far more dafty in tone, with a similar trunkload of non-sequitur pontificating as in Seven Psychopaths (of which I am not fan). The men’s wardrobe is, however, spectacular.
Sam Rockwell is a thoroughbred at this sort of thing; he can give exasperated reaction shots and cheerfully delivered threats with the best of them. He is the straight man in a film that has no desire to have a straight man.
Malkovich is giving some of his absolute best work in his magnificent career -- Malkovich has been rightly described as the ‘last erudite American movie gentleman" -- in a film that is happy to be anchored with such a fine performance, but not really willing to do much with it except let it exist. Which is a bit of a shame, because yes, he is that good, yet, even so, the film feels bloody ephemeral, in ways that The Banshees of Inisherin, for instance, does not. Parker Posey, Tom Waits, and the aforementioned Buscemi, all of whom are always a pleasure to see on screen, scene stealers all, do not have much to do here but appear for appearance's sake.
Wild Horse Nine is colourful and beautiful, and has some kind of mouth on it, one that is hell bent on biting the mouth that feeds it. It is an absolute pleasure to watch. The Easter Island and Santiago locations (in both modern high-res digital, and tactile-grainy 8mm) are most welcome on the big screen, while it unfolds.
Then, just as quickly as a government spook can say, “I don’t remember,” it is gone. We will always have Hank Williams.