Joker

A stitched together dolly of Martin Scorsese’s halcyon auteur days as envisioned by a dudebro with no understanding of Scorsese’s artistry, sophistication, or poetry. Add to this a patina of DC Comics and a suffocating aura of self-seriousness that pervades in the worst possible ways and you’ll be right in the ballpark for Joker. The first film of DC’s proposed Black imprint, a sublabel that they claim will tell one-off near Elseworlds-like tales of their famous characters, and one that received a mere shrug and “meh” from me.

The problem isn’t that Joker aims for seriousness or strives for something deeper, even if many of its themes are as deep as a puddle, it’s that everything about it is arrogant and derivative. Essentially a re-skin of The King of Comedy and prone to borrowing Taxi Driver’s finger gun scene without earning it, Joker is superficially impressive but lacking in anything resembling a soul. Here is a Frankenstein’s monster of film clichés and shorthand used as borrowed prestige to tell a potentially compelling story in as dismal a manner as possible.

On a surface level, everything in Joker is quite lovely and beautiful but look much deeper. Yes, the score is wonderful, and yes, the design of the film is noteworthy for bringing back the desiccated Manhattan of the 1980s, but it’s all in service of a story that doesn’t want to look too deeply at the social woes plaguing its city and its residents. Superficial seductions to wrap you up in a story that is aggressively sullen and humorless.

At least Joaquin Phoenix is on hand to make the journey through Todd Phillips’ plagiarism bearable. Phoenix is performing in a movie that Joker thinks it is and doesn’t deserve the tortured, physically deformed work he brings to it. His eventual transformation into full-on psychopath feels somehow deflated or unearned. There’s been no major escalation towards his behavior and his Arthur Fleck may as well be any random patient at Arkham for all his resemblance to the comics.

There’s only so many scenes of Wall Street types singing “Send in the Clowns” (groan) before a violent altercation, an ironic use of Fred Astaire, and a just bizarre appropriate of Charlie Chaplin before it grinds you down. Frankly, Joker needed more Grand Guignol expressionism to more accurately embody and capture the Clown Prince of Crime. Phillips and Phoenix don’t offer up enough derangement or dark humor in their reading of the character. This is cinematic leftovers with a painted-on rictus grin.