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| Property of Warner Bros. Studio |
Movie: Joker
Director: Todd Phillips
Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Robert De Niro, Zazie Beetz
Verdict:
In a sharp break from established superhero franchises, Joker sinks indie sensibilities and a humanizing eye towards the collapse of a troubled man in a callous world on the brink, and despite the controversy its various commentary threads have generated since its release, the pieces of this vexing social puzzle combine into arguably the most insightful and disturbing comic-based movie to grace the silver screen in a long time.
In depth:
Failure is an inherent risk of experimentation, no less on the big screen than in the laboratory. So when director Todd Phillips of The Hangover fame approached Warner Bros. with the idea of creating a series of standalone films inspired by DC comics and molded in a distinctly indie style, starting with an origin story of everyone’s favorite Clown Prince of Crime, most onlookers weren’t sure what to make of it. Despite the recent release of a few flicks aimed at deconstructing the now ubiquitous strain of superhero cinema (think Brightburn) the phrase "superhero art film” sounds about as bloated and pretentious as any ivory tower flatulence, so skepticism understandably ran deep. But as Joker, the first fruit of Phillip’s ambitious vision, revealed more of the considerable care invested in its conception — roping such luminaries as Joaquin Phoenix and Robert De Niro and backed by a series of stark, galvanizing trailers — opinions swayed and reception to the project warmed up. The final test came at the 76th Venice International Film Festival, which it passed with flying colors, netting a Golden Lion Award and cementing its status as an unqualified success. Though the film has no need for my lone voice in the wilderness singing its praises, I’ll join the joyful chorus all the same. Joker is a gritty, unforgiving, and superbly executed take on the villain’s origins, and stands out as a unique vision of the "superhero movie."
Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix) has had a rough go at life. A poor party clown for hire living in Gotham City’s most abysmal underbelly, he wants to be a comedian, but remains chained by a host of mental conditions, the strain of caring for his sick mother (Frances Conroy) and a general existential malaise. Socially, he feels alone and unhappy, due in part to one among his many neurological conditions that forces him to laugh uncontrollably at the most inopportune moments. But life really takes a turn south after a group of thugs mug him for a sign, leading him down an ever-darkening spiral of unemployment, despair, and, ultimately, a shocking act of violence that takes a city mired in economic anxiety by storm. Though covertly elevated to the status of culture hero by Gotham's self-proclaimed 99%, Arthur wants only validation, and seeks solace from his world through his meager breaks as a comedian, a relationship with a cynical single mother (Zazie Beetz), and the hope of acknowledgement from his idol, late night show host Murray Franklin (Robert De Niro). But even his minor accomplishments soon slip away, and as Gotham sinks deeper into a class war fueled by the mayoral candidacy of billionaire Thomas Wayne (played by Brett Cullen) Arthur spirals further away from reality, threatening to pull an entire city into his madness.
Joker unfurls unlike any comic origin story, twisting expectations and breaking new ground even as it retreads familiar narrative territory. The plot admittedly caught me a bit off guard, as I expected a backstory reminiscent of The Killing Joke. Instead of a regular guy who had One Bad Day, here Arthur Fleck is a troubled, unwell man who gradually gets pushed closer and closer to his limit, his final snap seemingly the instrument of some fatalistic malevolent entity, both irresistible, and inevitable. But this works out even better, as Phoenix, already a maestro in the acting department, gives his all in a chilling, convincing portrait of a man on the edge. He captures vulnerability, rage, and the often futile means by which we cope with them in sharp, brutal relief, and not even the movie’s detractors can argue the point. Phoenix commits to doing as thorough a character study as he can, engendering some measure of sympathy before brutally shredding our misplaced pathos to bits, creating a complex character equal parts sympathetic and reprehensible. Out of his cast mates, Robert De Niro and Brett Cullen stand out, particularly the latter with his portrayal of Thomas Wayne as a disconnected elitist who nonetheless has good intentions for an angry city he doesn't fully understand. Giving a critique of Joker's acting chops puts us in a bind, since so much gets filtered through Arthur's disturbed, delusional psyche, and hence, many of the characters play towards particular "types" that ultimately serve him. Beetz as Sophie Dumond, the young mother who gets romantically tangled with the troubled Arthur, serves as a particularly unnerving example. Taken at face value, their affair looks repugnant under the eyes of every god, a noxious blend of every terrible romance trope, from the loving stalker, to shallow love interest who exists solely to validate Arthur's feelings and wishes. But as the film moves along, we suspect something strange afoot with this woman, and the eventual reveal, wrapped up in a haze of tense music and haunting uncertainty, hits viewers like a mad truck, even those who saw it coming around the corner.
And here, perhaps, strikes at the heart of Joker's brilliance. Phillips builds his narrative in a series of small steps that results in major shocks that completely change how we understand the film’s reality. As Arthur and those closest to him reveal the depths of his delusions, we the audience are left questioning whether anything we see on the screen is real, or part of an elaborate, self-maintaining illusion he upholds to keep some measure of his sanity intact. The revelations, like with Sophie above, are executed with skill and subtlety, and do wonders towards shoring up most of the film’s few shortcomings. I initially didn’t like the entry of the Waynes into the narrative, especially as it raised the possibility of a link between Arthur and the young Bruce Wayne that threatened to derail the story. But Phillips averts the potential plot tumor by tossing Arthur and this particular line into an elaborate, lifelong deception courtesy of his equally disturbed mother, with just enough uncertainty to leave all of us, main character included, wondering what is or isn’t true. Likewise, the uncanny way that a mentally unhinged ne’er-do-well can evade police and shake off car accidents borders on that dreaded and lazy “Joker Immunity” latched firmly in the comics. But seeing the events as the unveiling of a sweeping delusion of grandeur from a very sick man squares these inconsistencies without directly confirming or denying them. It is a grand postmodernist showing Phillips and co. have put together, teasing expectations and our sense of reality while leaving open whether the film reflects anything other than the warped filter of a nihilistic madman.
Complementing the powerful narrative and performance by Phoenix is the brilliant direction all the way through. Phillips knows where and when to point the camera, zooming in to Phoenix’s face for tense closeups, or panning out as he walks the broken streets of his rundown, dilapidated neighborhood. Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir crafted a beautiful, mood-fitting score, shooting the tension through the roof in concert with Arthur’s unpredictable and disturbing behavior even as her trademark cello draws out his humanity. The film’s at its height when these elements coalesce, adding low, rumbling strings, flickering lights on a train, and Phoenix’s gaunt, haunted face as he cackles a shrill, nervous laugh in the face of an impending confrontation. These bubbling undercurrents serve to break our focus whenever a sudden surge of violence reaches from below the surface to scare the complacency out of us. In an age when stylistic hyper violence is a standard even in the PG-13 scene, Joker goes for quality over quantity, making the violent acts fewer and more sporadic, but also more jarring due to the nimble combination of realism, tension and sudden, disrupted equilibrium. There’s nothing “cool” about Arthur’s murderous impulses; they’re as random, visceral, and meaningless as real life violence usually is, and leave a greater impact as a result.
Joker swept into theaters on a tidal wave of controversy over its supposed social dimension, something I remained blissfully unaware of until after the fact. Though I may wade a bit later into the muck that has so many critics up in arms, as an artistic accomplishment I have little bad to say about it. It suffers from some ending fatigue, and a few plot contrivances which can't be explained away by appeal to deconstructive reality; but those hardly seem worth nitpicking. Although it threatens to play the tired "insane equals violent" hand, Arthur's gradual slip into violence despite his wishes softens that untrue and dangerous notion though Phillips wisely chose not to put a label to Arthur's psychosis — perhaps in an attempt to avoid unpleasant implications. While it pays homage to the gritty, nihilistic noir flicks of the 70s and 80s like Taxi Driver, it does not, as its critics claim, merely ape those films. It possesses an artistry all its own, born from a unique blend of stirring music, skillful acting, and an experienced director’s discerning eye for horror and humaneness. Above all, Joker stands as a remarkable character study, spinning an alternate view of such a well-known icon, and we can only hope Warner Bros. heeds its success and paves the way for similar films in the future.
Grade: A
