The chatter surrounding the much-anticipated release of
“Joker” — Todd Phillips’ gritty origin story of Batman’s arch-nemesis — has
been contentious, leading to debates over both the quality and the politics of
the film, and whether its depiction of a deluded white, male loner driven to
violent acts might embolden some genuinely dangerous people.
The conversation about whether the film itself might inspire
violence always felt more than a little alarmist. And looking at things a bit
cynically, at a certain point those debates simply become another part of the
movie’s marketing. With no major incidents occurring since its release, the
discourse has mostly returned the film’s merits simply as a film and what — if
anything — it has to say about class, mental illness, and our exceedingly
violent culture.
We meet lonely, mentally-unwell Arthur Fleck (Joaquin
Phoenix), a professional party clown who dreams of being a stand-up comedian in
the vein of his idol, late night talk show host Murray Franklin (Robert DeNiro). Arthur lives in an apartment with his ailing
mother (Frances Conroy), who nurses an obsession with her former employer
Thomas Wayne (Brett Cullen).
Arthur has a neurological condition that causes him to laugh
uncontrollably at inappropriate moments. The reaction from those around him
only furthers his feelings of isolation. Outside his apartment, Arthur is
ridiculed, tormented, and beaten by seemingly everyone he encounters.
He’s a man whose every miserable moment pushes him further
toward violence, which finally arrives during a random confrontation which ends
with him murdering three Wall Street bros that harass him on the subway. The
incident inadvertently turns him into a folk hero to certain segments of
Gotham’s population, who see his actions as the first shots in a war against
the rich.
Directed and co-written by Todd Phillips (“Old School,” “The
Hangover” trilogy), “Joker” is well made, and Phoenix gives a decent
performance (no surprise), even if we feel the effort behind all that acting.
It also looks great, with Lawrence Sher’s textured cinematography lending the
film a palette of dark hues that evoke the seedy look of New York City in the ’70s
and ’80s.
But it’s also one-note, overly serious and self-satisfied,
making for a film that’s alternately tense and kind of tedious. “Joker” so
desperately wants its story to be viewed as holding a mirror up to our violent,
empty society. It seeks to say something about individuals who’ve been abused
by those more powerful than them; about the people in society who don’t feel
seen, and where their pain can ultimately lead them.
Ultimately it becomes clear that the film has nothing to say
about the issues it raises, so they come across like mere window dressing to
what’s in the end a fairly conventional comic book supervillain origin story.
And it can never quite overcome the inherent problem of telling such an origin
story, which by definition means that the audience knows exactly where this
tale is headed. So we sit and watch it head there with precious few detours
along the way.
“Joker” wears its influence of Martin Scorsese on its sleeve,
evoking both “The King of Comedy” and “Taxi Driver” through its themes, plot
points, and visual motifs. It leans on them heavily to lend its story the
weight it doesn’t earn on its own.
I can stomach bleak and nihilistic films, but even grim
stories can find a whole range of notes to play on the path toward creating
that tone. Phillips keeps hitting the same beats, turning the film into a
grueling, monotonous slog. For all its edgelord
provocation, the movie is so morally muddled, with so little to say, that the
most I could muster was a shrug. It feels like a long, meandering joke that
reaches an end without ever delivering a punchline.
This article appears in Oct 16-22, 2019.
