There’s a scene about halfway through W. where Richard Dreyfuss as Dick Cheney ruins Bush’s lunch by bringing up first E. coli and then anthrax. (Remember anthrax?) Losing patience, the president glances at a document that needs a signature; it approves new forms of interrogation including dogs, sleep deprivation, stress positions, and simulated drowning—but “no torture.” Mr. Bush leafs through the pages and remarks, “Only three pages. Good.”
Hoping to emulate Cheney’s brevity, here’s a similarly brief rundown of both the movie and the New York premiere Tuesday night that maybe even our Decider in Chief could make it through.
Setting(s): The film bowed at the Ziegfeld with klieg lights, long (but moving) lines, and, 20 minutes after call time, a brief and humble introduction by director Oliver Stone. The after-party was held at the Metropolitan Club, reflecting Bush's patrician sense of entitlement, no doubt. The ticket said “business attire required," which I assumed meant a tie, but bare necks on men were allowed.
Cast: Stone’s talk recognized almost all the leading actors as present, including Josh Brolin, Ellen Burstyn, James Cromwell (as George Herbert Walker “Poppy” Bush), Elizabeth Banks, and Dreyfuss, as well as producer Bill Block and screenwriter Stanley Weiser. Also on hand: Page Six’s Richard Johnson, songster Rufus Wainwright, Russell Simmons, Rosario Dawson,and briefly, I think, Tina Brown. (Peggy Siegal was there, working the crowd. She looks better as she gets older, I want that.)
Backstory: Some people (including me and my trusty BizBash associate Claire Hoffman) think this is an “important” movie and are riveted with anticipation. The 60-plus-year-old woman who plops down next to me—all pulled together like my mother and her Republican friends—has a blingy “OBAMA 2008” diamond(esque) brooch. We chat. Is it just another screening? Everybody fiddles on their Blackberries. There are mini-gaggles of young, skinny girls in cocktail dresses. (Could they be models?)
Establishing shot: The usual red carpet nonsense. All of 54th street is frozen. The interlocking letter W is emblazoned in black and white all along the block. I keep thinking “John Fairchild would love this.” All women in black behind the tables, and all men working the ropes. Is this sexist? Who cares? They’re working smartly and keeping it moving.
Tagline: “A life misunderestimated.” Brilliant.
Lighting: At the Metropolitan Club, small discreet poles housed well-focused royal blue spotlights on the ceiling murals, which looked nice.
Craft services: The country club fare was served alongside a White House ice sculpture and yellow roses of Texas. Other than that, decor was limited to foam-core blow-ups on easels, one of which was blocking egress to the main hallway. Kudos to the clever person who just moved it out of the way.
Summary: There was something missing. Where were the politicians? Obviously Bloomberg couldn’t come, but couldn’t we turn out an Ed Koch or a Dinkins? Even Mark Green?
Likewise, no mainstream media folks (Barbara Walters, Regis Philbin, that type).
But for those who were there, the evening felt important. Said James Cromwell, “I feel like it landed. It’s satire, but then you realize ‘By God, this is real.’” And after the movie, you’re right back where you started.
