In the cinematic landscape where superhero stories have become as ubiquitous as the common cold, Todd Phillips's JOKER emerges not as a cure, but as a symptom of a different sort of malaise. It's a film that attempts to delve into the psyche of Gotham's most infamous clown, Arthur Fleck, portrayed with a disturbing relish by Joaquin Phoenix. One might say Phoenix doesn't just inhabit the role; he becomes the very embodiment of madness, flailing, dancing, and laughing with a ferocity that borders on the grotesque.
It's almost as if Hollywood has taken to donning the guise of the serious artist, much like a child dressing up in their parent's clothes, oversized and slightly comical, and JOKER wears the mantle of social commentary with the same awkward fit, trying to address issues like income inequality and the degradation of civility with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The film references classics like Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy with such frequency that one might expect Martin Scorsese to pop up in a cameo, perhaps to nod approvingly or to shake his head in dismay. Yet, where those films explored alienation and the dark recesses of the human soul with genuine depth, JOKER feels like a photocopy left too long in the sun, faded and lacking the original's sharp lines.
Phillips, known for his comedic escapades in The Hangover series, seems to have traded in his humour for a grimacing mask of seriousness. But does he truly care about the issues he's presenting, or is this just another costume in his cinematic wardrobe? James might quip that Phillips, with his newfound wealth, could afford to buy up all the water post-apocalypse, yet here he is, trying to sell us a vision of societal collapse while sipping from a golden chalice.
As for the film itself, it's not without its moments. The visual style, with its nod to A Clockwork Orange, gives it a veneer of self-importance, but beneath this, it's all style over substance. The narrative, while not entirely devoid of merit, meanders like a drunk at a carnival, occasionally stumbling upon a ride that's fun but never quite finding the exit. The final act, in particular, is like watching a magician who can't decide on his trick, leaving the audience to mutter under their breath, wishing for a conclusion with the decisiveness of a guillotine.
Joaquin Phoenix's performance, however, is the film's saving grace. He takes Arthur Fleck from a man on the edge to one who has leaped off with abandon, embodying the character with a commitment that's both admirable and unsettling. Yet, even Phoenix's tour de force can't elevate the film past its own pretensions. James might liken this to watching a brilliant actor perform Shakespeare in a shopping mall, surrounded by the din of consumerism, the brilliance somewhat lost in the surrounding noise.
In the end, JOKER is a film that tries to be profound but ends up feeling like a sideshow act in the grand circus of modern cinema. It's a spectacle, yes, but one that leaves you pondering not the deeper meanings of society, but rather when you might see Phoenix in a role that doesn't require him to eat scenery whole. JOKER might have its dark moments, it's ultimately just another jape in the long comedy of Hollywood's quest for relevance.