Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix) is on seven different types of medication. He has a rare condition that causes him to cackle uncontrollably and carries a card that reads “Forgive my laughter”. Fleck dreams of being a successful standup comedian but earns minimum wage as a pathetic party clown named Carnival. He is sad, single and living in a cruddy apartment with his ageing mother Penny (Frances Conroy). No wonder, then, that since its premiere at the Venice international film festival in August, Phoenix’s anarchic, ultraviolent Joker has been understood as a kind of stand-in for basement-dwelling incels-turned-mass shooters, and the film itself a timely evocation of a tense, Trumpian cultural moment.
The film grasps for ways to cheekily telegraph its relevance. Fleck’s mother is hinted to be the victim of a #MeToo-esque scandal involving Bruce Wayne’s father; a TV clip of a shooting goes “viral”. A scene that sees Joker woozily pirouetting down a flight of steps in a three-piece suit is played for maximum swag – and set to the sounds of Rock and Roll Part 2, the 1972 track from convicted paedophile Gary Glitter.
Fleck accidentally becomes a vigilante symbol when he is spotted gunning down three bankers on the subway, face painted like a mournful jester. This sparks a wave of Occupy-style protests across the film’s early-80s Gotham City. Except that Phillips and Silver are only interested in the imagery of revolt, not its ideas. An angry mob is both generic and a shorthand; upon closer inspection, Charlie Hebdo-ish protest signs are so banal they might as well read: “Je suis Carnival”. Lest viewers underestimate the profundity of what’s on show, Hildur Guðnadóttir’s thundering cello score is there to remind them.
Fleck is bemused by the kerfuffle, insisting that he is “not political”, and there’s something in the idea that public figures are easily co-opted by the violent far right. Still, the film isn’t daring enough to pass as truly nihilistic. Writers Todd Phillips and Scott Silver buffer Fleck from identification with white supremacy by giving him a crush on his African American neighbour (Zazie Beetz). It is a sign, perhaps, that there is a concern about alienating certain ticket-buying audiences.
Joker does not invite ambivalence. When the character refrains from sharing a joke with a psychiatrist, it is because she “wouldn’t get it”. The film is awfully pleased with itself; Phoenix’s twisted smile is less the iconic, toothy grin associated with the title character, more a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
