‘You get old, you start to question shit, regret shit.’ That’s where a bitter, been-there-done-that John Malkovich is at in Martin McDonagh’s latest film, Wild Horse Nine. It’s a line that demonstrates McDonagh’s unique ability to blend profane black humour with profound melancholy, and it sets the scene for the familiarly bittersweet cocktail to come.
Malkovich is on top form as Chris, a weary, seventy-something CIA operative stationed in Chile in 1973 with his younger, burger-munching buddy and colleague, Lee, played by Sam Rockwell. Chris has been involved in many high-profile, covert operations over the years (Guatemala, Congo, Dallas were ‘successful’ he says, The Bay of Pigs ‘less successful’). No one can know that, of course – the people he’s killed and the outcomes he has influenced are things that he himself must contend with. Now, reaching the end of his life and stricken with a terminal illness, he’s doing just that.
He and Lee are planning the CIA’s latest operation: a coup d’état to overthrow the newly elected president, Salvador Allende, Chile’s first-ever democratically elected socialist. Chris is losing interest in his work, though, and claims he has always wanted to go to Easter Island. Lee agrees to go with him, partly out of empathy but partly to watch over him – their boss, MJ, played by a brilliant Steve Buscemi, is anxious that Chris keeps giving away CIA secrets. ‘We’ve come down here to destabilise your democracy and it’s going great’, he tells two Chilean students at the airport… not a good start.
The pair drive a rental car around the picturesque island visiting its famous Moai statues (Chris calls them ‘the big heads’) and bickering with each other and fellow tourists: Chris tells a British couple that he ‘was always on Ireland’s side’, for example. He also monologues constantly on everything from IRA bombs and Hank Williams to varieties of cheese and the wild horses that roam the island, frequently prompting hilarious cuts to Rockwell’s confused face. The two actors make a fine pair, revelling in McDonagh’s salty, rhythmic dialogue but at any moment capable of pivoting to genuinely melancholic reflection, like a misty-eyed, morphine-induced admission from Chris: ‘I can’t wait to see the heads… This time tomorrow we will have seen the heads.’
This is certainly one of McDonagh’s most philosophical works, reflecting on mortality between bouts of laugh-out-loud dark comedy and all against a backdrop of real political tragedy. That broader scale means Wild Horse Nine doesn’t have quite the same intimate warmth as his masterful The Banshees of Inisherin or the tragic bite of his even-swearier In Bruges, but Malkovich and Rockwell bickering and bonding among those stern and stately statues makes for an excellent watch all the same.