Wild Horse Nine

 

British writer/director Martin McDonagh makes ballsy buddy pictures about tough men (and women) on the verge of collapse.

His latest film is in keeping with the tone and temperature of previous work like In Bruge (2008), Seven Psychopaths (2012) and The Banshees of Inisherin (2022), where McDonagh has written characters so well they seem both familiar and foreign.

He sets Wild Horse Nine in 1973 Chile, just before Marxist president Salvador Allende was deposed by a military coup directed by Augusto Pinochet. John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell are CIA agents Chris and Lee, respectively, posted in Chile for reasons that become increasingly clear as the story unfolds. The chief of the agency's South American operations is M.J., played by the always-welcome Steve Buscemi, who is treated with disdain by both men and returns the same to them. Their profane interactions are classic McDonagh.

Malkovich's deceptively hangdog demeanor and whacked-out wardrobe do not match his Chris's steely dedication to the mission, whatever that is. We learn this unlikely figure has been present for many major global regime changes, killing dozens of people over time.

Rockwell's Lee is the often-apoplectic Chris's partner, handler and companion on a trip to Easter Island to see the "big heads." On route to the island, they meet two young Chilean women, Monica and Alicia, (Mariana di Girolamo and Ailín Salas), student revolutionaries. Their exchange in the airport sets the stage for the movie's core revelations, and there are several. Many of them in this often hilarious picture are deeply moving passages.

Much has been made of Malkovich's performance, and it is indeed tremendous, IMO. Rockwell, a frequent McDonagh collaborator, matches his screen partner's timing and energy in much the same way real people respond to their closest, most-trusted friends, anticipating their words, responding in kind, challenging and indulging. Chris and Lee's journey of discovery is the thread that ties all of the outrage and heartbreak together.

The film also features a wonderful turn by Parker Posey as Lee's bitter and adulterous wife, Margie. Her introductory scene is pure artistry.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1963)

 

I am not the only person who loves Robert Mulligan's film adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird (1963). It's a masterful motion picture from a director who knew his way around the rocky terrain of human relations (Inside Daisy Clover, Summer of '42, Clara's Heart, to name a few of his movies),

I also believe I am not the only person who cringes, just a bit, at the scene when attorney Atticus Finch (a heroic and humble Gregory Peck) packs up his papers after doing his best to defend the doomed Tom Robinson (a humble and heroic Brock Peters) from Mayella Ewell's contemptible deceit. During the scene, those in the gallery -- the town's Black citizens and Finch's children, Scout and Jem, and their friend, Dill -- watch as Finch turns to leave. The reverend, seeing Scout hunched behind the rail, tells her, "Stand up. Your father's passing." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7CX_5D6y6E

I'm confident Mulligan's intent was to pull every drop of pathos from the audience, and, I feel, sanctify Finch's efforts to save Robinson's life. And it's the latter part that has never sat well with me.

Harper Lee's story depicts an honorable man, committed to principles he recognizes are bigger than himself. He also sees they are beyond the ken of the state of Alabama -- even America. Thus his dejection as he leaves the courtroom; his disappointment and isolation weighing down his shoulders.

When the picture was released, Jim Crow ruled the South, and hateful white's terrorized their Black neighbors with lies and brutality, limited their employment, education and even their movements; cops and courts were complicit.

So, to audiences then and even today, members of the gallery rising is a sign of genuine respect. But it also affirms the tragedy of the world Lee and Mulligan were offering to the public -- a world where doing the right thing, being committed to justice was seen as exceptional. That's always been the cringe, for me. Black folks were always expected to be grateful when other folks decide to be good people.

As I told a friend years ago when we were talking about the South's lethargic desegregation -- "Why should we praise people for treating us with decency?"