Our resident book reviewer, James Patrick, branches out into film this month. Now this is a great combination of my favorite things. We have a film, reviewed by a book lover, that smacks George W. It doesn’t get any better than that.—Chuck

The last eight years have been (mostly) a horrible, horrible nightmare for those who yearn for intellectual debate and political honesty, with W. on the stand and Cheney running the scenes behind him. As a reader, W.’s incompetence seemed particularly painful due to his horrid misuse (again and again and again) of the English language. So frequently did he screw up that a separate term, the “Bushism”, has been created to catalogue his linguistic disasters. From “Rarely is the question asked: ‘Is our children learning?’” to “We got a problem in this country—too many good docs are gettin’ out of business. Too many OB/GYN’s aren’t free to practice their love with women across the country,” we liberals looked on with horror while we saw our language destroyed while the base cheered.

But W’s speeches weren’t enough—he had to destroy America’s credibility all around the world. Bush ignored the reports and the advice of Bill Clinton, and let 9/11 happen. He allowed the destruction of an entire city and waited until four days after Katrina’s landfall to get food and water to the Superdome. (When Gustav came around, however, they paid attention for fear of looking bad in a campaign season.) And, because I don’t have time for it, let me just list some of the other crap we’ve had to put up with:

• Illegal wire taps
• Gitmo
• FEMA
• Tax cuts that go to the wrong people
• Bailouts that go to the wrong people
• Dick Cheney shoots his lawyer while illegally hunting without a permit—and that’s okay folks!
• Anyone remember Harriet Miers?
• The Wall between the U.S. and Mexico which was supposed to protect us, in theory, until the Mexican government realized that large parts were on their land, not ours, violating the deal, causing parts of the fence to be torn up and replaced on our dime.

But enough of the bad, on to the good. This isn’t being written to complain. This is being written to explain how I owe my Oscar to George W. Bush—the one thing he did right by me.

* * *

The Colonial Theater is an historic landmark in Phoenixville, PA, in addition to being a first-rate independent theater. To the movie buffs who wonder why the Colonial Theater sounds so familiar, it’s because they filmed several scenes from The Blob there. In fact, the whole film was made in and around Phoenixville.

But there’s more to this theater than a somewhat campy sci-fi film: glamour… class… decadence… These are the things I think about when I purchase my tickets for their weekly feature or their Sunday afternoon classics. In that theater I saw Katharine Hepburn for the first time as Tracy Lords in The Philadelphia Story. I watched Bugs Bunny get followed around by an eerily life-like caricature of Bogart asking if he could “spare some change for a fellow American down on his luck.” I saw Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes, Sean Connery as both the first (and best) James Bond and also as Alfred Hitchcock’s leading man in Marnie. I even saw my first silent film on the big screen there—Harold Lloyd in Safety Last! All of this in its grand Hollywood glory—Black and White, Technicolor and Vista-Vision.

On Oscar night, the screen was used for a live feed transmission of the 81^st Annual Academy Awards. As I entered the building, I noticed that I’m incredibly underdressed. Everyone came in their fine attire, some wearing vintage gowns, others wearing tuxedos that were last worn at someone’s wedding in 1989—when the wearer was about twenty pounds skinnier. People pass by in pajamas, too. The dress code is a free-for-all, always open to interpretation. I lingered on the balcony sipping a cold glass of water, looking down at the guests. Everyone was grabbing at the buffet, scarfing down pastries and antipasto. Soon they entered the theater and it began.

* * *

The evening started off simple enough—a hello and thank you to our sponsors. Our hostess then broke into a short performance of “Life Is a Cabaret”, explaining that she had to sing it because the necklace she was wearing belonged to Liza Minnelli. The brooch that her counterpart was wearing belonged to a Hollywood royal—Joan Crawford.

Soon, the evening became a competition. Trivia questions were laid out before us, and the audience was becoming more and more competitive. The simple act of raising your hand and answering a question became something bigger—it was a question of getting your hand up first, answering correctly and receiving an Oscar, a replica of the real thing, only smaller. Knowing that this might be our one chance to win an Oscar, everyone in the audience was tense. Or maybe it was just me; I have a tendency to be competitive.

* * *

The question was:

“Josh Brolin garnered an Oscar nomination for playing Dan White in Milk—what other historical figure did he play this year?”

My hand shot up and I yelled out, “W.!”

Our host handed me my award and I said, “Zac Efron, eat your heart out.”

* * *

I spent most of the drive home thinking about W., the man and the film. I, like so many of my friends, had been irritated at the fact that W. did not go after Bush in the way he deserved, but almost seemed bent on making him a sympathetic figure again. “It looked like they were going to crucify him and Cheney,” a friend of mine said as we walked out of the theater, “and they just slapped them on the wrists.” And yet, this film—which was the first film to address a president’s legacy while he was still in office—and this man—who will go down as one of the worst presidents we’ve ever had—helped me win an Oscar.

And so, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give my proper acceptance speech now:

I would like to thank the Colonial Theater for arranging this wonderful party. Calhoun Jewelers for sponsoring this event. Thanks to Oliver Stone, Richard Dreyfuss and Josh Brolin for their work on the film. And finally, to George W. Bush, who screwed up so often, so hugely, that Oliver Stone just had to drop everything and make a film about him. Peace.