the rhapsodic cineaste

Reporter: Mr. President, what place do you think you will have in history?
George W. Bush: History? In history we'll all be dead!

Let’s get the disclosures out of the way first. I voted for George W. Bush, once. It is a mistake I deeply regret. In my view, not only was his presidency disastrous, but his poor judgement and intellectual incuriosity, coupled with a narrow cynical ideology, drove me from the Republican party, likely forever.

That said, I have no earthly idea who Oliver Stone intended to attract with his biography of the former president. W. isn’t a bad film, but with a figure both as divisive and as fresh in our minds as George W. Bush, Stone takes great effort not to offend. Ironically, Stone’s reputation is already such that the 22% who still approved of the president’s job performance when he left office will likely avoid the film, suspecting it a hatchet job. Alternatively, I suspect ardent liberals will be annoyed by the film’s attempt to paint W. as the victim of a cold, detached father he spent a lifetime trying to impress.

In typical Stone fashion, the story isn’t told chronologically, instead jumping around to various points in W.’s life, highlighting the events that Stone and his screenwriter, Stanley Weiser, have decided are important. Almost entirely excised is any reference to Bush’s tenure as Texas governor, and the president’s bungled response to Hurricane Katrina is ignored completely. More surprisingly, Stone omits all but the most off-handed references to 9/11.

One would imagine that presiding over the worst terrorist attack in U.S. history would be a subject worthy of inclusion in a presidential biography. Stone merely pays it lip service, ignoring both the event and the President’s subsequent power grab. The film says nothing about the ensuing erosion of civil liberties or Bush’s belief in the unitary executive.

Instead, we see Bush as a frat dick with daddy issues. Constantly seeking approval from Poppy, W. drinks, gets arrested, and dates trashy women. Once W. is elected president, much of the film is focused on the Iraq war, reminding us that George H. W. Bush failed to go into Baghdad. Viewing that decision a mistake, the younger President Bush and his circle of neo-conservative handlers are hell-bent on finishing the job.

Perhaps something was lost in the film’s editing, but repeatedly, and inexplicably, we witness W. choke on a pretzel while watching a football game. Portrayed as if a significant revelation to the president’s character, the event tells us absolutely nothing. The near-death experience isn’t even spirited as either life affirming or the cause for some serious soul searching. It just happens, totally devoid of context.

The film’s acting is something of a mixed bag. Josh Brolin has the unenviable task of playing George W. Bush without becoming a parody, and does a terrific job. A role that could have been little more than an comedic impersonation, Brolin infuses his subject with a real humanity. It’s a nuanced performance imbibed convincingly with religious zeal, pathos and humor.

Unfortunately, most of the acting is just astoundingly bad. Some of the actors don’t even try to capture their subjects’ voices or mannerisms. Neither George H. W. Bush (Cromwell) or Dick Cheney (Dreyfuss) bear any real resemblance to their real-life conterparts. I’m not sure whether this is more or less distracting than Scott Glenn’s Donald Rumsfeld, or Thandie Newton’s Condoleezza Rice, whose performances are even less nuanced than a subpar episode of Saturday Night Live. After finding a pitcher perfect W. in Brolin, Stone has filled the film with jarring performances that repeatedly draw attention to themselves, and away from the story.

Unresolved conflict between fathers and sons are a central theme to Oliver Stone’s work. While such sub-text can make for good Shakespearian drama, W. simply ignores too many critical events in order to force the story that Stone wants to tell. It’s a shame that Stone couldn’t let go of his own hang-ups to deliver a more complete, and complex portrait of the former president. Perhaps it is Stone’s empathy for a fellow Yalie, or simply pity, but W. feels like it wants to excuse the former president.

Whether or not W. ached for his father’s affection, it does little to mitigate the tragedies we’ve collectively endure under his calamitous stewardship. While not as complete a failure as W.’s presidency, it’s this odd grasp for kinship that keeps Stone’s film from being a success.