John Malkovich is great at being terrible. His Broadway leap forward came in 1984 when, matured 31, he played the agreeable football lunk Biff in Death of a Salesman , and he’s said that his most loved part was poor, grievous Lennie in Of Mice and Men (1992). In any case, that is not what he’s associated with. Consider Malkovich and chances are, you’ll picture his listless sexual stalker Valmont, smear ting Michelle Pfeiffer’s blamelessness only for no particularly good reason in Dangerous Liaisons (1988), or Mitch Leary, cajoling and crazy In the Line of Fire (1993). Presently, however, he’s truly getting into terrible, the sort of awful that means out of the motion pictures and botches up genuine living: He’s going to play a tyrant.

Satur Diman Cha, an anecdotal blend of Saddam Hussein, Pol Pot and pretty much some other totalitarian you want to name, is the focal character of Just Call Me God, a bit of what its author executive, the Austrian Michael Sturminger, portrays as music theater. It starts an European visit in Germany this March, and the plot is genuinely basic: As his administration disintegrates, a military tyrant stows away in a show lobby, where he is met by a TV writer. The activity is joined live by music from an organ—what Sturminger calls “the tyrant instrument, since it imagines it can do everything alternate instruments can do.”

The match initially imagined the thought in 2012, as a follow-up to two prior coordinated efforts that visited Europe: one, Malkovich’s proposal, about the Austrian serial executioner Jack Unterweger; the other, Sturminger’s, about serial tempter Casanova. (Great folks plainly don’t engage them.) This may appear an odd route for a Hollywood star to invest his energy, however there’s a sure anxiety to Malkovich’s inventiveness that conveys what needs be in surprising joint efforts: a progression of marginal camp re-manifestations of well known pictures with the American picture taker Sandro Miller; a film with Robert Rodriguez that won’t be discharged for a long time; outlining a line of dress sold in Italian stores. In spite of the fact that he now lives in Massachusetts, Malkovich and his better half put in six years living in France, and he talks both French and Spanish. For an American, he’s to a great degree European.

The script isn’t exactly completed yet. Truth be told, the match were all the while chipping away at it (Malkovich altering, Sturminger composing) amid the U.S. presidential crusade; from that point forward, power, its execution and its potential misuse have been much at the forefront of everyone’s thoughts. So when we meet, at a little and remarkably unshowy inn in Munich, we start by discussing how great performing artists are similar to tyrants: They don’t permit you to take a gander at any other individual. Where does Malkovich feel a performing artist’s control over his or her group of onlookers dwells?

“I believe it’s produced from, as it’s been said, Being There,” he says. “In this space, as of now. To be the place you are. On the off chance that you don’t have that, theater being absolutely fleeting and natural, genuine power is extremely hard to produce. It’s an extremely troublesome thing to fake. That is to say, [actors] do fake it, yet it’s very awful, truly.” He rolls the “r” on his “rilly”— once in a while have two syllables sounded so cavalier.

This isn’t to imply that Malkovich is inconsiderate; a long way from it, he is monstrously neighborly, if a little de haut en bas. He sits on a little lounge chair, rich and marginally paunchy, with pointed ears, winding the finish of his goatee whiskers between his fingers as he talks. His voice is a shock: It’s occasionally portrayed as reedy, about dependably as drawling, yet in actuality it is a tender bass, and he doesn’t wait on his vowel sounds. What he does is discussion in conditions, with extensive breaks in the middle of: statement; respite; proviso; stop. And after that he hits a catchphrase with a change of tone, bass to mezzo, and that light move of his “r’s.” It makes his line of thought effortless to tail; you coast along behind him. Some portion of his energy as entertainer might be this: Malkovich is great at Being There, and he’s great at bringing you there with him.

What does it take for an entertainer to play terrible? A most loved trap—utilized by tyrants genuine and anecdotal—is attacking other individuals’ space. Woodland Whitaker’s Idi Amin (“Quite great,” as per Malkovich) in The Last King of Scotland stands just marginally excessively near his questioners. In The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin utilizes a raised arm as a method for making himself greater, and of suggesting the clench hand may fall. In any case, the best physical execution of malevolence Malkovich has seen was Anthony Hopkins as the media big shot Lambert Le Roux in Pravda , at the National Theater in London in 1985.

“He resembled a reptile or a snake being kept down by an undetectable chain,” Malkovich says. “It was all forward and at an extremely unsafe edge”— he holds his lower arm before him at 45 degrees—”like he would dispatch into your face.”

In what capacity will your despot be? I inquire. He isn’t sure yet; it’s too soon in practices, yet he begins to inform me regarding a supper he had in Paris an evening or two ago, with a lady companion and an Iranian businessperson, “super, super shrewd, a hyper depressive” who was in the high period of his disease. “I don’t think I talked the whole night; I was simply watching his hands move,” he says. “He had them nearly in [my friend’s] confront, sort of like a snake charmer. Anybody watching would have thought it was forceful, however it wasn’t.” He’s energized, on the love seat edge, spine totally straight, his correct hand reached out into my face, one finger twisted. “I’ll likely utilize a few components of that,” he says, sitting back.

Malkovich has a notoriety for being terrible, all things considered, and additionally in front of an audience. He told an understudy debating society that he’d be cheerful to see the left-wing British columnist Robert Fisk shot; he once pursued and got a future mugger in New York. In any case, all that he says today in regards to power and governmental issues focuses to his being an instinctual libertarian: He considers legislative issues to be marginal indecent; taking without end flexibility of decision “is about as awful as you can do,” and the most noticeably bad mishandle of force he can consider is sending individuals to war. “On the off chance that I had a center conviction,” he says, “which I’m very sure I don’t, yet in the event that I had one, it’d be this: that the great never look for power. Never.” If he had supreme power himself, he’d utilize it to energize imagination and confidence, since he considers innovativeness to be a sort of pharmaceutical for society, and, he says, his voice softening, “individuals can make such delightful things.”

There is only one minute when I experience the dim side, when he gets on to French criticism laws—he’s right now occupied with a maligning case with the daily paper Le Monde — and how they apply (or rather, don’t) to the French government. This is the other time when he hurries to the front of the love seat. He inclines forward over the espresso glasses, settling me with his eyes. “What do you need me to take from that?” he says, his upper lip moved once more from his teeth. His skull, and his ears, appear to end up distinctly more pointed. “What might you like me to tell my kids? What might you have me say? Vote, vote, vote? Not this time; I’m great.” He gazes at me, then sits back. I feel marginally wiped out. “Would you like another espresso?” he inquires.