Joker (2019) is not a film for children. The sheer fact that I have to write that sentence as an opening line to my review is atrocious, but so are the choices parents sometimes make for their children. I saw too many children in the movie theater when I went out this weekend to see the seventh live-action iteration of an infamous comic book villain be brought to life once more. By too many children, I mean, I saw any children at all. With that being said, who should be seeing Joker? DC Comics fans, of course, Joker is a rare golden ticket in what has been mostly a barrage of flimsy plastic impersonators that have made up the DCEU thus far. It is an achievement and possibly a new strategic approach to storytelling that Warner Brothers will be taking in terms of how they structure DC stand-alone properties going forward. Rather than being preoccupied with an extensive continuity spanning across several different films like Marvel has successfully done for years.
Who else should see Joker? Well, it might be easier to tell you who shouldn't. Those who have a mental illness, incels, abusers who may gain easy access to firearms, and dozens of other subgroups who may watch this movie and feel emboldened instead of disturbed as the majority of the population have been by the time the credits roll on this dark, uneasy narrative. This film is not entertaining, nor is it enlightening; it falls somewhere in the murkiness of the in-between. This indifference feels more dangerous than if it had made any out-right declarations through its themes and subject matter.
Joker takes on an ambitious premise. How do you craft an origin story for one of the most vilified characters of modern fiction? The trick is, you don't, at least that is what the last few minutes of the film seem to insinuate depending on how you interpret them. The film has several plot holes throughout that you could drive a clown car through, but most of them can be covered up using the same reasoning a person may apply when they find themselves sympathizing with its profoundly flawed protagonist:
"Well, he's just so sick."
I couldn't help but think in the middle of watching the movie that the entire plot would have functioned just as well, if not better, had there not been a mental illness aspect. The film doesn't even take the time to have an intelligent conversation about what Arthur's mental health issues may precisely be. He is just given the generic label of "troubled soul" who takes a bunch of unnamed medications and goes to mandated therapy to cope with his undefined instability. While it is somewhat clever to use a brain injury as justification for Fleck's use of laughter, often inappropriate, in his life, the film doesn't seem interested in discerning the difference between organic mental health problems and neurological issues derived from physical trauma. He stops taking his medication and almost instantaneously becomes violent, an extremely problematic misrepresentation of the relationship between mental illness and violence. Fleck's darkness should derive from something more than a chemical imbalance in the brain or several severe blows to the head. Still, Todd Phillips seems to go out of his way to acknowledge that Arthur is gaining autonomy by exclusively ignoring his fragile mental state. Why should he take care of himself when not doing so is bringing him strength and notoriety? This is the question that seems to be posed to the viewer. We aren't critiquing Arthur's choices as much as we are watching them be justified through ongoing exposition and plot revelations. The script at times wants to have brief discussions about topics that feel far more interesting and relevant to the degradation and deterioration of the human spirit than why Arthur Fleck can't flirt with women properly. Subjects like class inequality, healthcare and gun control are forced onto the back burner so that we instead are made to focus on a story of a man who simply lost his way because he decided to embrace his damaged psyche instead of fight against it. This misguided sympathy echoes the continuous mistakes the media makes in representing white mass shooters as "misunderstood loners" rather than the heartless, hateful murderers that most of them are. It is right for the film to vilify the environment around Arthur that failed at stopping his ascension to madness, but that barely does any good if it is coupled with the suggestion that Arthur would have become what he was regardless of how society treated him. That is the precise notion I had several times throughout my viewing of the film. Arthur was destined for disaster; society just sped up and exacerbated the process by treating him poorly.
It isn't that mental health should be ignored as a plot point altogether; it just shouldn't be the defining driving force that leads Arthur to a life of crime and deviance. Every other contributing factor to Arthur's decline as a decent human being is treated secondary to what is going on in his head. "If only he had the right state of mind, he would make the right choices." Life isn't that simple, whether it is life on the big screen, in a comic book or even in reality itself. Arthur's behavior is more likely a result of the violence he was exposed to as a child and from growing up in a crime-ridden city, but these are not the factors that are visually fetishized. Instead, the filmmakers rely on the arcane trope that crazy people simply do crazy things.
The film has its definite triumphs. Phoenix gives a raw and intense performance of a character whose multitudes are never fully explored and perhaps never should be. He never phones it in, and his performance is innovative as opposed to a derivative of the many talented performers that preceded him in the role. Frances Conroy and Brett Cullens give strong supporting performances with the latter portraying Thomas Wayne in a way that de-sanctifies someone that we've always viewed through the eyes of a mourning son. Zazie Beetz does her best as a potential love interest for Mr Fleck, but her character all-together leaves something seriously to be desired in terms of depth or substance. However, this seems to be a fault of the writing and not the actress herself. Robert DeNiro's presence feels more like an enlarged homage to Taxi Driver (1976) than anything else. He is still a welcomed inclusion to an already competent cast, and his character also provides most of the genuine humor present within the film. One scene involving a character who is a little person seems to challenge the audience to laugh at the uncomfortable. This scene is one of the only moments in the film where I felt as though Phillips had something compelling to say about how we view the world and use humor to cope during times of stress. The acting, cinematography and even the editing are all successful in creating a distinctive, gritty, realistic aesthetic to the film, but the story is where the project most falls short of sure-fire success. It argues complexity but doesn't contain the tools or the sheer willingness to support its case. It makes some good points but leaves them to be overshadowed by insufficient and inaccurate declarations. Joker is a film that deserves to be discussed rather than derided or applauded in any conclusive kind of way. It is a film in which context is incredibly important. How do we explore subjects like mental instability, moral deplorability and societies many institutional failures without misrepresenting, insulting or worse psychologically harming individuals who may share attributes with our troubled on-screen protagonists? How can we avoid inflating ideas and preconceived notions and instead offer audiences something more communicative? Todd Phillips doesn't have many answers, but his film does pose many good questions, whether it is consciously aware it is doing so or not. However way you look at it one thing is for sure, it is no laughing matter.
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