If there’s one filmmaker who understands the value of narrative contrast, it’s Martin McDonagh. The name of the playwright and director’s bread-and-butter genre says it all: a dark comedy has never felt more hilarious or gut-wrenching than when it comes from his pen, and his latest, “Wild Horse Nine,” is no exception.
Even a cursory glance at his filmography reveals the same: take a pair of opposing lead actors — for contrast — set their miserable tale in a beautiful, vibrant place — again, contrast — and include various thoughtful monologues about the nature of the human soul, but litter them with f-bombs — mostly for contrast but also for fun — and you’d have a McDonagh script.
In fact, the least contrast-y thing about “Wild Horse Nine,” which screened Thursday as the opening night film at the Twin Cities Film Fest, is how strikingly it echoes McDonagh’s past films, for better and for worse.
His last film, “The Banshees of Inisherin,” was similar, but its quiet restraint made for one of those rare, foundational moviegoing experiences that cemented my attachment to film when I saw it in late 2022; in fact, the best scene in that film comes from a priest contrasting a miniature donkey and God. It still makes me teary-eyed to this day.
True to form, “Wild Horse Nine” gives us a new lonely island setting, a new duo of male leads cussing incessantly and a new central farm animal to feel deeply miserable about. Most importantly, though, it provides a thoughtful political context that makes its dad-core spy plot really sing. Like I said, the shtick works.
The movie follows a pair of CIA operatives in the early ‘70s taking a break from destabilizing the left-wing Chilean government to visit Easter Island. Sam Rockwell is cast as Lee, who is both G-man and straight man to John Malcovich’s Chris, a kooky old agent with a high body count and a list of governments toppled that’s nearly as large.
The pair’s trip to visit the “big stone heads,” as Chris puts it, quickly unravels, as we realize that Chris is dying and other forces are at play that seek to ensure he doesn’t leave alive. Guns, swearing and horses ensue.
Malkovich disappears into the role, which is especially difficult to do considering how Chris keeps blabbing and blowing the pair’s cover to anyone who will listen. Watching Malkovich in this role is best described as watching your grandpa and your last hope in Western democracy die simultaneously before your eyes. It’s not my favorite performance of the year, but as far as the Academy is concerned, it’s his Oscar to lose.
The veteran actor makes McDonagh’s at-times irreverent dialogue feel like the natural musings of a “wild horse” being put out to pasture; he’s done terrible things in the name of his country, but he can’t seem to remember most of them. This moral contrast creates some of the film’s most jaw-dropping moments.
At the lighter end of the script, he and Rockwell share some often-hilarious musings about animals, the afterlife and cheese, with each getting in some emphatic barbs that had everyone in the sold-out theater laughing into their hands.
When Malkovich starts questioning if moths will get into heaven, Rockwell retorts with: “Heaven is for humans. You’re the f—ing Catholic,” and that sums up McDonagh’s sensibilities pretty well.
But where the humor and espionage elements start to flag in the second half, “Wild Horse Nine”’s political underpinnings are the strong hand at the reins. Chris represents an entire generation of American idealism on hospice, grappling with the mess it made of the late 20th century through both tender moments between old friends and subtlety-smashing action beats.
Broadly, the film is still a hair’s breadth from being a mass-market spy comedy, and certain unconvincingly progressive elements of its final message do little to stave off that feeling.
But this is a film defined by its contradictions, and its script excels at capitalizing on them. Both Lee and Chris go the entire film refusing to call the Easter Island statues by their indigenous name — “Moai” — but make a point to correct each other over calling the boats in Venice “gondolas.” Chris has killed dozens of people, but he won’t kill himself for fear that God will judge him.
These men are both dangerous and pitiable; that’s what makes them Martin McDonagh characters, but it’s also what makes them human, and it lets the film walk the line between knee-slapping, exciting and tearjerking with ease.
It’s hard not to view this as a bit of a watered-down effort compared to past efforts like “Banshees,” but let’s be real: some of that water was supplied by my own tears. Its dialogue might not rattle around in my head for years, but I caught myself dropping more than a few f-bombs at each car that passed me on the way home, so clearly something stuck.
Kevin Lynch can be reached at lync1832@stthomas.edu.
