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Under discussion:

The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle  (2000)

W.  (2008)

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Oliver Stone’s W. opens tomorrow, and it’s been a controversial project because it tackles the life of an existing president. But Stone could have been even more contemporary had he rushed out a biopic of Sarah Palin. Sure, she’s only been well-known for a few weeks, but if Stone can rush out W. in a matter of months, maybe he can throw together a prescient Palin movie before Inauguration Day. Of course, he has even more time if she and McCain aren’t elected. And it probably would still be relevant, since surely we can expect a Palin for President campaign in a few years, right?

To help the director out, the crew over at Spill.com has put together an animated trailer for what Oliver Stone’s P. might look like. The trailer has been made to perfectly ape the style and cut of the original W. trailer, complete with Eddy Arnold’s version of “What a Wonderful World.” The Putin cameo seen through the binocular POV is priceless, and the Bullwinkle torture can be appreciated by anybody — not just the Palin supporters — who sat through The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Be sure to rewatch the trailer and, in your imagination, substitute the animated characters with the respective cast members SpoutBlog picked out last month for such a biopic.

[via Erik Davis' Twitter]

Under discussion:

Born to Boogie  (1972)

Graffiti Bridge  (1990)

The Grateful Dead Movie  (1976)

The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour  (1967)

None But the Brave  (1965)

Ocean's Eleven  (1960)

Purple Rain  (1984)

True Stories  (1986)

Under the Cherry Moon  (1986)

Human Highway  (1982)

Renaldo and Clara  (1978)

200 Motels  (1971)

Sign O' the Times  (1987)

Journey Through the Past  (1972)

The Players Club  (1998)

I'm Bout It  (1997)

House of 1000 Corpses  (2003)

The Devil's Rejects  (2005)

Love Her Madly  (2000)

Greendale  (2003)

Ilé Aiyé  (1989)

The Education of Charlie Banks  (2009)

Halloween  (2007)

Speed Racer  (2008)

The Longshots  (2008)

CSNY Déjà Vu  (2008)

Filth and Wisdom  (2008)

Gunnin' For That #1 Spot  (2008)

Internet Dating  (2008)

It hasn’t been terribly uncommon since the late ’60s for musicians to get behind the camera, whether for a straight concert film, a tour documentary or some kind of silly narrative focused on themselves and their bands. Jerry Garcia co-directed The Grateful Dead, Frank Zappa co-directed 200 Motels, The Beatles collectively co-directed The Magical Mystery Tour and separately John, Paul and Ringo has each taken the helm on a film project, some more artsy (John and Yoko’s cinematic collaborations, like Up Your Legs Forever) or less self-focused (Ringo’s Marc Bolan doc, Born to Boogie) than others.

Now it’s a little more common for musicians to become directors of fictional films that aren’t so reflexive. Many don’t even have anything to do with music at all. And many are so awful that it’s safe to say the filmmaker should stick to music making. This week, IFC releases the directorial debut of Madonna (Filth and Wisdom), and Beastie Boy Adam Yauch has a new basketball documentary (Gunnin’ for That #1 Spot) hitting stores, so we’d like to celebrate by looking at some other musicians who turned filmmaker, for better or worse.

Musician: Ray Manzarek, keyboardist for The Doors

Debut Narrative Feature: Love Her Madly (2000)

He and Jim Morrison met in film school, so it isn’t too surprising that Manzarek shot a lot of the tour footage that you find on Doors home videos, nor is it too surprising that he’d have greater aspirations as a director. But he really blew it with his first narrative feature, named for one of his band’s songs, which came with the Skinamax-ready tagline, “At the crossroads of art and obsession…waits murder.”

Musician: Prince

Debut Narrative Feature: Under the Cherry Moon (1986)

Following the success of his acting debut in Purple Rain, Prince became attached to star in this black and white period musical and then ended up replacing Mary Lambert as its director. Unfortunately, the Fellini-influenced musician-turned-filmmaker disappointed, and Under the Cherry Moon bombed at the box office. Yet Prince would still go on to helm the concert film Sign o’ the Times and the even less popular Purple Rain sequel, Graffiti Bridge.

Musician: Master P

Debut Narrative Feature: I’m Bout It (1997)

Rapper Master P is probably the most prolific filmmaker on this list, but he’s possibly also the least deserving of directorial work. Most of his movies have been ranked extremely low by IMDb users, yet they must be somewhat popular, as he’s been able to release nine straight-to-video titles since he first shared the director’s chair with Moon Jones for the semi-autobiographical I’m Bout It. His tenth movie, Internet Dating, hits stores December 30.

Musician: Bob Dylan

Debut Narrative Feature: Renaldo and Clara (1978)

Dylan got his directorial feet wet working with D.A. Pennebaker on the doc Eat the Document, and then with this nearly four-hour surreal pic he pretty much drowned himself as a filmmaker. Not only was it poorly reviewed, it also played to mostly empty theaters, resulting in a recut two-hour version that focused primarily on the film’s musical performances. Currently, there is no cut of the film available to fans, though excerpts can be found on a bonus DVD released with a live CD a few years ago.

Musician: Neil Young

Debut Narrative Feature: Human Highway (1982)

Young’s filmmaking alter-ego, “Bernard Shakey”, started off with the CSNY doc Journey Through the Past and has since also continued making films about his old supergroup, most recently with CSNY Deja Vu. But he’s also let a few narrative films slip through, including this weird edge-of-apocalypse tale co-directed by actor Dean Stockwell and featuring the members of Devo. Considering how easily it could be a cult classic today, it’s a shame the film isn’t available on DVD. Young’s more serious fans, though, at least have his so-so rock opera Greendale to enjoy for now.

Musician: Rob Zombie, singer of White Zombie

Debut Narrative Feature: House of 1000 Corpses (2003)

Exactly what you’d expect from a heavy metal star, Rob Zombie entered filmmaking with a violent exploitation horror film. He followed it with the more accessible and more successful sequel The Devil’s Rejects and the more mainstream Halloween remake. It’s still up in the air if he’s better suited for the concert stage or the director’s chair.

Musician: Fred Durst, singer for Limp Bizkit

Debut Narrative Feature: The Education of Charlie Banks (2007)

Many people would have expected something akin to Zombie’s filmmaking style to also come from rap-rocker Durst, but the former Limp Bizkit frontman surprised audiences at the 2007 Tribeca Film Festival when he premiered this 1970s-set coming-of-age drama. Even more shocking than its genre and tone, though, was that it isn’t actually completely terrible. However, Durst’s sophomore effort, The Longshots, which opened to poor reviews and poor box office, may be evidence that Durst’s future as a filmmaker isn’t as bright as originally thought.

Musician: Ice Cube

Debut Narrative Feature: The Players Club (1998)

He’s a much better actor than some might have expected or may still give him credit for — even if he sometimes appears in crap like Durst’s The Longshots — but Ice Cube’s filmmaking ability leaves much to be desired, as evidenced with this debut and only feature from the former member of rap group N.W.A. It’s not so awful, though, that he shouldn’t keep trying. He’s certainly not the worst rapper-turned-filmmaker (that might be Master P).

Musician: David Byrne, singer/guitarist for Talking Heads

Debut Narrative Feature: True Stories (1986)

When Byrne’s quirky Warner Bros.-distributed film was released to theaters, it somehow failed to connect with either moviegoers or critics. Since then, it has fortunately become a cult hit, possibly because every film featuring John Goodman eventually catches on with cult audiences (Speed Racer may eventually have its day!). Following this fictional effort, Byrne went on to direct a couple of documentaries, including the arty Ile Aiye (The House of Life) about a Brazilian spirit cult.

Musician: Frank Sinatra

Debut Narrative Feature: None But the Brave (1965)

This might be considered more along the lines of an actor-turned-filmmaker effort, but even during the peak of his movie career, even after he won an Oscar, the “Chairman of the Board” was first and foremost a singer. Sinatra had already produced a number of films, including Ocean’s Eleven, but Warner Bros. was still reluctant to give him his first directing gig. And perhaps the studio should have kept him out of the role, since he apparently didn’t even have the decency and respect to call his Japanese actors by their real names (he reportedly called them all “Freddy”). Though the WWII film was a modest hit, ol’ blue eyes never sat in the director’s chair again, but it’s speculated this has more to do with Sinatra’s wanting less responsibility than the studios’ wanting less racism from their filmmakers.

Under discussion:

W.  (2008)

There’s an argument to be made that W., Oliver Stone’s Josh Brolin-starring sorta-biopic on our sitting but barely-standing president, has been thrust on the culture too soon. What kind of perspective could Stone and screenwriter Stanley Weiser possibly have on the Commander in Chief with George W. Bush still bumbling along in office, still a regular fixture on cable news and a constant target for Saturday Night Live? And wouldn’t the real W’s minuscule approval rating suggest that interest in dramatization of his presidency would be slim? But maybe a better argument is that W. has hit at exactly the right time — in fact, maybe the only time when this oddly argument-free work of trompe l’oil comedy could possibly slip seamlessly into the media diets of average Americans. Almost unbelievably, Stone has John McCain to thank for this accident of timing: W. would look much more freakish as a bizarrely idea-light folly if it had been released into a world that hadn’t ever seen (or even conceived of) Tina Fey’s dead-on impression of Sarah Palin.

Fey came back to her late night alma mater to play Palin because of her unignorable physical resemblance to McCain’s running mate; her performance has become a sensation not because it’s so comically inventive, but because it’s such an exact mimicry. Very little of what Fey actually does as Palin could be construed as a joke. Mostly, the comedienne does stuff Palin does, exactly the same way Palin does it, except more so. This is pretty much the same tactic that Stone and his ensemble apply to the story of George W. Bush: Stone and Weiser collage real events and known quotes into a plausible “loser makes good, but remains a loser” chronology, and their stars, many outfitted with hairpieces and other cosmetic enhancers for maximum authenticity, aim for Fey-like verisimilitude turned up to 11.

But there’s a paradox: Fey’s Palin might be the most accurate political impression in modern cultural history (it’s almost surely the funniest), but the lack of air between mocker and mocked renders the impression incapable of delivering any insight as to who Sarah Palin really is. Fey is able to turn this farce of mimesis into a triumph because no one expects sketch comedy to say anything. No one worries about Fey’s intentions, nobody asks what it all means. She acts, we laugh, game over.

But it’s okay to expect more depth from a work of cinema than we’d expect from a five-minute bit on a sporadically funny late night comedy show, no? Rightly or wrongly, one does expect an Oliver Stone film –– especially an Oliver Stone film about an American president — to say something, to make an argument, to reveal something we didn’t know or to advance a theory that’s so out-of-nowhere that it seems to momentarily stun before it sparks a heated dialectic. W. doesn’t. Its entertainment value (which is not inconsiderable) is based fully on a kind of laughter of recognition. “Look,” it wants us to say. “Josh Brolin is walking just like George W. Bush walks!” “Look! Richard Dreyfuss is smirking, just like Dick Cheney smirks!” It all makes for a strangely shallow, self-congratulatory viewing experience: catching one reference after another makes you feel so smart that you only vaguely realize that the film isn’t actually engaging your brain.

As a monster caricature created by Stone and Weiser and played by Brolin (who nails the voice and body language, but never even attempts the goofy grin), George W. Bush isn’t a complete doofus, nor is he exactly smart. He’s enthusiastic, but impatient. He has no eye or need for detail. He’s forgetful, and easily confused, and extremely imprecise in his use of language.  The film begins with its subject pledging a frat at Yale, and ends a few months after the declaration of Mission Accomplished in Iraq, with no end to the war in sight. Stone jumps back and forth in time in between, to show the major life moments that led a boozy ****-up with a desperate need to impress his cold, powerful father (James Cromwell) to finally manage to do just that. Then, after a few all-too-brief moments of triumph over the father’s sworn enemy, the son finds himself ill-equipped to sustain his success, and loses sight of the ball. Literally.

Very, very literally. W.’s production was famously rushed, compressed into a breakneck 10 months in order to ensure release before the election, and the film plays as though its afraid to stop and catch its breath. With a lot of bases to cover in a scant two hours, Stone rushes from year to year, from one vaguely famous line or incident to another, spelling out virtually every thought and theme without a shred of ambiguity. This is especially problematic in the film’s first half, when illustrations of Bush’s hard-partying youth (and battles with Bush the Elder, who is always quick to sign the check that will make his son’s mistakes go away, keeping a strict ledger of disappointments in the process) are contrasted with scenes from the run-up to war in Iraq in 2003. In one scene from this section, W marches in front of his constant crew of advisors, pondering a justification for an invasion of Iraq while simultaneously getting the group lost on his own ranch. The symbolism after the fact seems head-slappingly obvious –– Get it? He can’t even lead his own team, in his own back yard! — but it actually plays as an unusually subtle moment in context. I’ll take bad subtext if it’s the only subtext I’m gonna get.

In fact, all of W.’s most entertaining moments involve Bush surrounded by his advisors, although much of the pleasure to be had here is of the ironic variety. Bush will sit at the head of the table in the Oval Office or Cent Com, snacking in confusion, while Condi Rice (Thandie Newton) chirps in affirmation, Cheney barks doomsday scenarios, Donald Rumsfeld (Scott Glenn) occasionally tosses out a bit of Yoda-level philosophy (”The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence,” he reminds, almost dreamily) and Colin Powell (Jeffrey Wright) quietly but firmly protests. With such a large cast, most of the actors have fewer than a dozen lines, and everyone seems to have been coached to make the most of their time on camera. Thus, there’s a a lot of vamping going on. Newton’s performance is over-the-top hyper-accurate, and it’s almost spooky, like something that belongs in a David Lynch film; it’s total camp, but irresistibly so. Other bit players play it straight to set up the ensemble. Tom Kemp gets one scene as David Kay. He shows up and announces that “our system has broken down completely”; Karl Rove (Toby Jones) takes a mournful bite of pie. Not a minute later, Kay resigns; Rumsfeld eats his pie triumphantly. End scene.

The exception to this rule would be Wright, whose performance doesn’t always feel vocally true to Powell, but who benefits tremendously from the fact that his character seems to be a surrogate for the voice of the director. If the question is, “What is Oliver Stone trying to say about George W. Bush?”, then the answer seems to be bound up in Powell’s take on the man, as presented here: Bush II is fundamentally a decent man, but he’s in over his head. He doesn’t understand the weight of war (”I AM a soldier,” Powell fumes at one point, and this seems like it could have come straight from the mouth of Stone). He’s blinded by his single-minded faith and its ideological antecedents, and is incapable of thinking beyond the current crisis moment, beyond his own conception of himself as heaven-sent savior. The tragedy is that he probably would have been happier as baseball commissioner, but he had to go work out his daddy issues on the world stage.

This is not exactly the stuff of groundbreaking revelation, but it’s the closest Stone gets to insight or argument. It’s not enough to drown out W.’s easy-bake parade of impressions, and that’s depressing. 17 years ago, Oliver Stone made a movie that made such bizarro claims about the fate of an American president that the government actually had to pass a law to dispute it. Now, he’s content to create a live-action version of DC Follies. If history remembers W. at all, it’ll be as a monument to the erosion of Oliver Stone’s balls.