Joker: Folie à Deux

Doubling Down on a Pair of Jokers

or

The Roar of the Greasepaint (The Smell of the Crowd)
 

Folie à deux (French for 'madness of two'), also called shared psychosis or shared delusional disorder (SDD), is a psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are "transmitted" from one individual to another.

 

Re-reading my review of Joker—a film which earned a billion dollars in revenues and secured Joaquin Phoenix a Best Actor Oscar—I soft-pedaled my major reservation to the film, which was "if you're going to make a movie about a comics fan-favorite with a proven track record, maybe you should stick a little closer to the source?" The Joker, of course, was a villain—some would say THE villain of The Batman series—but the Joker without Batman is a bad guy with no opposition, a villain without redemption, and the stomping grounds of Gotham City merely a 'burg without hope...not someplace you want to go to have a good time. Director Todd Phillips went a different route through town, basing his version of "Joker" on two Martin Scorsese movies (Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy), but without that director's Catholic horror at the consequences of dwelling incessantly in an isolated mind with delusions of grandeur. Centering your film around such a character was always going to be morally questionable and never on the side of the angels.

The movie, however, was a hit. And in the movie business, when you have a hit, you make a sequel, because, in Hollywood, lightning always strikes twice in the same place, despite overwhelming evidence of diminishing returns, both artistically and financially.

 

So, here, we have that sequel, Joker: Folie à Deux, which was trumpeted as a continuation of Phillips' Joker story, but adding another character from the Batman series (initially "The Animated Series" actually), the Joker's hench-woman and moll, Harley Quinn—probably the most toxic relationship in any comics setting, even more than the brick-throwing antics in Krazy Kat. But, Phillips puts the same anti-clockwise spin on the story, leaving behind the comics and the arcana. And starting fresh with old jokes.

The new film starts with a cartoon made by the animation team directed by Sylvain Chomet who made The Triplettes of Belleville as well as the unrealized Jacques Tati project, The Illusionist. It's a deflection—a lot of the movie is (as was the last one)—for when the blood-red curtains ending the cartoon open, we cut to the reality: Arthur Fleck (Phoenix) incarcerated in a wing of Gotham City's Arkham Asylum (done in full Titticut Follies grimness). Every morning, the wards are opened up by the guards (including Brendan Gleeson's Jackie Sullivan) so that the inmates can empty their bed-pans and get their requisitioned meds. Sullivan always begins the day by asking Fleck "Got a joke for me, Arthur?" but lately the erstwhile "Joker" has been silent.

You see, he's awaiting trial for the murder of talk-show host Murray Franklin, as well as three toughs who assaulted him on a subway, and for an unnamed orderly at Arkham (all presented in the first film). His attorney (Catherine Keener) has been diligently working on his case trying to keep Arthur appearing normal so she can plead insanity at his upcoming trial to keep him from being executed. But, Arthur's reputation precedes him like a shadow—he did, after all execute Franklin on live-television. And, there are those "Joker" fans in Gotham, fanning his flames—there was even a made-for-TV movie about him that gets mentioned a lot. Things are not looking good for Arthur.

That is until his relatively good, albeit drugged, behavior allows him to participate in a music-therapy program in another wing, where he meets Lee Quinzel (Lady Gaga), and their mutual attraction begins to perk him up. Just like in the cartoon at the beginning, Arthur starts to break into song—but just in his imagination—old standards like "If They Could See Me Now," "For Once in My Life," "They Long to Be (Close to You)," "To Love Somebody,""Bewitched," "That's Entertainment!" and even "The Joker" from the Newley-Bricusse musical "The Roar of the Greasepaint! The Smell of the Crowd!" (which is a little too on-the-painted-nose) others start popping up whether it's just Arthur standing in front of a TV, or director Phillips goes off on some extravaganza set-piece (he's already made a shot call-back to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, so it isn't unsuspected.

The trouble, though, is pacing. Just as Joker would stop-cold whenever Phoenix had a chance to improvise for the camera, Folie a Deux stutters to a stop—or at least a slow crawl—whenever the music starts. The songs aren't delivered as bouncy show-stoppers, but slow internal monologues with hesitant half-hearted voices (even the Gaga), so there's a slight cringe factor whenever someone starts to break into song, off-set somewhat by the anticipation of what musical style Phillips will borrow (will it be La La Land? M-G-M? The Sonny and Cher Show?), and long after the joke wears a little thin, it will still be crooning along until somebody snaps out of the reverie. It tries the patience.

It will try the patience of comic book fans, as well. Just as Arthur is not "The Joker" of the comics (no, really), Lee is not Harley Quinn in any sort of incarnation, animated, live action, or four-color. The original Harley was a psychologist at Arkham Asylum, who fell under the Joker's spell during evaluations of him at the facility, and then things get a little muddled as she acquired above-human abilities and an acrobat's agility. For the longest time, she was attached to Joker's hip as a moll, henchwoman, girlfriend, soul-mate, but, eventually, that relationship became so damned toxic—they're both crazy, after all, and homicidal—that to keep Harley Quinn a viable character, keeping them apart seemed the only answer with DC Comics acting as the aggrieved parents pushing the couple apart. But, Lee in  Folie à Deux is somebody else. She's initially a fellow inmate, a firebug committed by her parents who happens to meet Arthur by accident and the sparks (heh) fly. But, even that's not right. In this, Lee is a hanger-on, like those souls who marry incarcerated prisoners for whatever reason—"in love with being in love" (but without conjugal obligation) reflected glory, "I can save them" fantasies, or just plain "bad wiring"—and she had herself committed with the intention of sharing his glory.

But, when Arthur is on trial, eventually serving as his own defense attorney (with Harvey Dent—played by Harry Lawtey serving as prosecutor), he's confronted by the reality of what he's done, and seems less the mythic failure of chaos and societal retribution, but, a flawed, screwed-up schlub, Lee dumps him, taking away the last shred of fantasy he has—even his fan-base becomes threatening to him, leaving him a good deal less better off than he was before.

Fantasy versus reality comes to a hard truth: that maybe the love of his life isn't what he thought it was (but, then, they did this in the first movie) and that the thronging crowds supporting him are merely a slathering mob there for their own self-aggrandizement (I've seen that one, too; I watch politics). Fleck has to confront the horrors of both of those realities and when they hit, there's no song or fantasy sequence to play him out.

Now, this all plays right into my film-philosophical wheel-house where love is a form of insanity and musicals are a false form that breaks the agreed-upon screen/reality wall to have characters break into unchallenged song to express internal emotions they're incapable of with mere dialog. What Phillips has done seems perfectly natural to me in the crazy-illusion film-world, especially when combined with lunatic characters like Joker and Lee. Sure, the film has flaws—I've brought up the pacing issue—but all the actors are great in it, including Phoenix and Gaga, and the concept is just enough "out-there" to maintain the themes of the first film and build on them.

And what is the theme? I'd contend that it's a cock-eyed continuation of a couple expressed in Christopher Nolan's Batman series—"You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain" (even if you actually start out as a villain but are a hero in your own mind) and where the symbol is the powerful thing, not the man inhabiting it. In the movie, Arthur Fleck isn't competent to carry on the mantle of "Joker" and he gets rejected.

Remember what I said about basing a movie on a villain unopposed, without redemption? There's no future in it. But "The Joker" is a popular character, some poor souls might say he's more popular than "The Batman" himself. So, you make a movie about him. But, "The Joker" that everybody (meaning the fan-base) likes is the agent of chaos, the contrarian, the one who's in control of things and leads the heroes on a merry—if deadly—chase. The Joker That brings in the box-office bucks is the one ahead of the game. That's the Joker that people respond to. That's The Joker that has fans.

This "movie-Joker" is not him; he's never in control. And I think that was always Phillips' intention with Arthur Fleck. A guy who fell between the cracks and by acting out inspired mob-hysteria among the anti-social. Joker: Folie à Deux—the name means so much more when you consider all this—is the the natural continuation of this premise and the logical conclusion. The movie does exactly what it wanted to do, bless its twisted little heart.

The result, of course, is the last riotous laugh: the movie is being rejected by its fan-base. Not because it's musical, but because this Joker is a loser. In many fan-circles, you can do bad things—horrible things—but, you can't be "a loser". That does nothing for fans wanting to identify with an agent of chaos, or see The Joker as the guy in charge manipulating the "order" of things. So, the sheep are rioting...or doing what sheep do when they protest, they find another patch of grass to gnaw away on and ignore what's not working for them anymore. As in the Who song "Let's forget you/better still" and find some other power symbol for their needful mimicking narcissism.

 

And that's the truth of it. Power fantasies are merely that. Fantasies. And when the fantasy fades away, well, as Arthur says "You get what you f-ing deserve."

 

"You can say that again, pal!"

Joker

Why So Scorsese-ish??
or
"Never Rob Another Man's Rhubarb!" 

Well, the rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame,
Preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain
Nightsticks and water cannons, tear gas, padlocks,
Molotov cocktails and rocks behind every curtain,
False-hearted judges dying in the webs that they spin,
Only a matter of time 'til night comes steppin' in

"Jokerman"  Bob Dylan

The origin of the comic-book character, The Joker, has always been one of some controversy. In real life (what comic aficionado's call "Earth-Prime"), there has been some differing of opinions if it was Batman "conceptualist" Bob Kane, writer Bill Finger, or "ghost" artist Jerry Robinson who initially came up with the concept of a Moriarty-like villain to The Batman. The character had not one, but two stories in the first issue of Batman comics—he was supposed to be killed off in the first one, but editorial demands kept the character alive for future stories.

Inevitably, there had to be an origin story—in "The Man Behind the Red Hood!" (published in Detective Comics #168—February, 1951—and written by Finger), it is revealed that the Joker was a criminal who decide to rob the Monarch Playing Card Factory of $1 million (no, let's just go with it...) and during the attempt was stopped by Batman and, to avoid capture, jumped into a vat of toxic waste, which had an outlet to the Gotham River (this is pre-EPA). Returning home, he discovered that the sludge had turned his face white, his hair green and his lips red and, that snapping his psyche, he became the Joker ever after. In Alan Moore's graphic novel "The Killing Joke" he was a failed comedian who couldn't provide for his family and is co-erced to pose as "The Red Hood" and falls into the vat. His pregnant wife is killed in retribution and that's what drives him insane. Moore has a lovely line in the piece where the Joker says he doesn't remember some details: "If I'm going to have a past, I want it to be multiple choice!"*

In other media, The Joker has been different with every actor that's portrayed him, but the biggest jump came with Heath Ledger's portrayal in The Dark Knight, with the character as less of a criminal so much as a self-mutilating nihilistic sociopath (although you can't even depend on that description). Curiously. writer-director Christopher Nolan imagined that character without an origin story, but simply being a fully-formed agent of chaos—he even has him change his story about how he got his "Glasgow smile" a couple of times. This Joker is so unreliable, he even changes his tactics and despite a spoken hatred of "schemers" comes up with some elaborate crimes. Ledger's character can not be trusted in any way. Multiple choice.

So, despite that, we get a movie that tries to cement how "The Joker" came to be. I suppose it's a natural instinct ("inevitably"), especially if a character captures the public's imagination and you want to exploit it. It's probably born of the hit that Ledger made with his performance (even winning an Oscar for it), and it's an invitation to actors to go to extremes. With such a crazy character, how can anyone say you're wrong?   

Director-writer Todd Phillips (he of the "Hangover" movies) has an interesting choice. He sees The Joker born out of societal neglect, with a certain amount of psychological deficiency thrown in for good measure. We meet "The Man Who Would Be Joker" Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix, who is scary-good) as he's working his clown-job  spinning a sign for a store going out of business. He's accosted by street-kids who steal his sign and he gives chase, following them into an alley** where one of them smash the sign across his face and, once he's down, start kicking him, leaving him writhing and crying. Welcome to Gotham City, circa 1981 (judging by the music choices and a later theater marquee). There's a garbage strike and the city is looking shabbier than usual.

After that incident, Arthur is at a meeting with his counselor with the Department of Human and Health Services, who is doing the standard grilling about how things are going, can I see your journal, etc etc. Then, he gets a little truculent: "You don't listen, do you? You just ask the same questions every week. "How's you job?" "Are you having any negative thoughts?" All I have are negative thoughts." Arthur is not happy, although he tries to put on a happy face. He asks if he can have the dosage of his medication "upped" and is told, as if he didn't know, that he's on 7 medications already, but they don't seem to be doing any good. "I think I felt better locked up in the hospital." 

On the train home, he's sits sullenly in the back and notices that he's being stared at by a child. He smiles and starts to do some funny faces for the kid who giggles at the funny man. The child starts to giggle, which puts the kid's mom at alert. She turns around and tells Arthur to stop disturbing her child. The sequence is key. Arthur, out of nervousness, begins to laugh uncomfortably. He has a neurological-psychological condition that causes him to laugh-tourette's like—without any control. It's not a laugh that's contagious, inspiring other laughter. It sounds painful, and whether it's a natural condition or his attempt to suppress it, it has a similarity to gagging. It doesn't happen all the time, but it's not a laugh that inspires mirth.

For Arthur, laughter is something of a curse. But, then the whole world is something of a curse to Arthur. Living with his mother (Frances Conroy), who is clinging and supportive of her son), his joy is to slump home to her and they share watching Arthur's favorite show—a local talk show with host Murray Franklin (Robert De Niro). Arthur watches, rapt, as he imagines being recognized by Franklin for his care for his Mother and his philosophy of making the world happy.

Arthur has a rich interior life, which will become apparent as you watch the movie. Phillips will take you down rabbit-holes that will mis-direct the audience into thinking they're reality. But. they are Arthur's reality, which is not reality at all, but a fantasy of his capability and his view of what his talents can actually achieve. 

It's a good little trick. We're seeing everything from Arthur's point-of-view, which is dependent on what he's being told, which is frequently a lie, a suspicion, or just plain crazy. He is frequently led to think one thing, suspect another, and then, forced into realizing a reality that had nothing to do with either. It begins to feel like he's living a lie, that he actually is a lie or even a delusion—to the point where he can't trust his fantasies and he can't trust his reality.

His world is a house of cards—all jokers—and it is tenuous at best, and fragile to the extreme. Arthur's hopes and dreams are built on flights of fancy and a certain amount of narcissism. He thinks he's giving the world joy, but he's basically seeking approval for his actions, some sort of acclaim. He wants his own love of himself to be reflected back to him.

That would be fine if he was in any film except Joker. For if there is a flaw in the film, it's that it steadfastly refuses to give a positive counter-point to the constant depiction of corruption, hatred, apathy, and nastiness that suffuses the film. In that, it betrays the comic-story that it is spun off from, and the film-inspirations from which it culls—and steals—its basic blue-print. 

Arthur puts a smile on young Bruce Wayne's face

At some point, everyone betrays Arthur, whether its his Mother, Murray Franklin, his neighbors and co-workers—everybody. And the movie goes so far as to add those attributes to one character who you'd think would be a bit more idealistic. That would be the character of Thomas Wayne (Brett Cullen)—doctor, Gotham scion, and city-father (as well as the father of a young son, Bruce)—who has ambitions of becoming mayor, and who, rather than being a philanthropist, sees the poor and down-trodden as (wait for it) "clowns." A vigilante killing on a subway—committed by a clown-clad Arthur, Bernie Goetz-style—gets this response: "Gotham's lost its way. What kind of coward would do something that cold blooded? Someone who hides behind a mask." Oh, the bat-irony. Would this character inspire his son? Don't think so.

Arthur as hypocrite—ignoring someone in distress

The basic DNA of the story is not at all original—in fact, it is so unoriginal that everyone, even the most casual of movie-goer's, spots it. Joker takes a lot of its DNA from two of Martin Scorsese's most disturbing films—Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy (both starring Robert De Niro, of course)—Phoenix's Fleck is a combination of those film's protagonists, Travis Bickle and Rupert Pupkin, fringe-people who self-isolate as much as they are isolated, to avoid the conflicts with their world-view and who become dramatically unhinged without the benefit of perspective or inspiration. Both films share a jaded view of celebrity, as two seriously off-kilter and demented characters are ultimately—and mistakenly—seen by society at large as being heroes or celebrities. For Scorsese, with his Catholic roots, the films were imbued with a moralistic horror that we would come to this, and the very real perspective that this was wrong and something to be examined and rectified.

Joker has no such perspective. It has no such aspirations. It has no such ambiguity. It's a stacked deck—akin to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange—where the only reason we're drawn to its protagonist is that we're in his constant thrall, and everybody else in the film, antagonist or ally, is portrayed as loathsome and deserving of a beat-down. There is nothing that gets in the way of Arthur Fleck's demented vision, and, if there's nothing to make one feel extraordinary sympathy for the character, there is also nothing to suggest that he might be wrong, or punished for that matter, either. This Joker is just plain evil, and there are no consequences in sight. It's like watching a biography of Charlie Manson, but without the life imprisonment to let us sleep at night.

The fact of the matter is (and everybody associated with this movie should have realized it before they began this fool's errand), The Joker's a lousy character without The Batman to serve as contrast. In fact, without the latter, there really isn't need for the former. A villain makes a lousy hero.

Get thee to thy film-maker's editing room. Make him laugh at that.

Kyle Baker, Carmine Infantino and Alex Ross' Jokers

 Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right, Here I Am!

Ceasar Romero, Jack Nicholson, 

Heath Ledger, Jared Leto

Brian Bolland's definitive Joker

Marshall Roger's work on The Joker (Steve Engelhart does the words)

Yeah, Doesn't Seem So Funny NOW, Does It?

* Recently, it has been revealed in the comics that DC Creative Head Geoff Johns is doing a mini-series called "The Three Faces of The Joker" for its Black Label imprint. Not sure if it will explain anything in a way to make "continuitists" happy, so much as a way to explain away why the character is so different in different writers' hands. Then again, it might be just a way to drive comic-book sales.

** There will be another attack in an alley later in the film—in fact, there are enough parallel incidents with situations happening in two's that one might think it was the Harvey Dent story.