The King of Comedy

The first time someone described my taste in movies as dark, I got defensive about it. The exact words used were, “You know, the kind of movies you like—dark.” At first I wanted to say no, wait, I’m normal! But now, many years later, I’ve come to accept it. I do like dark movies the most. As a fan of drama, darkness is something I require to fully engage in with a work of fiction. There’s a line in Moby Dick that reads, “That man who has more joy than sorrow is not complete…”  And looking back on the movies that have mattered most to me, they’re all dark. While the ones that aren’t have dark elements.

     The first movie I was obsessed with was Batman (1989, Tim Burton). I saw it multiple times in the theater. I collected Batman bubblegum trading cards and action figures. My mom took me to wait in a long line to see the Batmobile. I’d cherish any opportunity I had to leaf through a Batman coffee table book a kid on my block had. This same kid I remember urging me that I had to see Beetlejuice (1988, Burton), which marks my induction into auteur fanaticism. And okay, Batman isn’t that dark of a movie, but it’s pretty dark for a 9 year old.

     Jumping ahead to my senior year in high school, David Lynch had replaced Tim Burton as my favorite director. But the transition makes sense because they’re both artists who create dark worlds. And hey there’s also the coincidental sandworms link. If you’ll indulge me in an historical pop culture digression, recall that Lost Highway (1997, David Lynch) featured a soundtrack produced by Trent Reznor, featuring original songs by his band (along with songs by Marilyn Manson and others) and released on Reznor’s own label. And in my miserable small town senior year in high school, 1997 was nearing the end of MTV’s dominance over youth culture. Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys were ascending but the kids I hung out with worshipped Tool, NIN, Marilyn Manson, Korn, and Limp Bizkit. So the Lost Highway soundtrack was a huge deal. (JNCO jeans and Limp Bizkit are my worst memories of the late ‘90s.)

     But the ‘90s were also an era of a black comedy renaissance in indy film. I couldn’t get enough of films like Welcome to the Dollhouse (1995, Todd Solondz), Happiness (1998, Solondz), In the Company of Men (1997, Neil LaBute), Your Friends & Neighbors (1998, LaBute), and most importantly my discovery of Woody Allen. The first Allen film I saw (and in a theater) was Celebrity (1998, Woody Allen). And the mid to late nineties arguably represent his vintage years because of Bullets Over Broadway (1994), Mighty Aphrodite (1995), Deconstructing Harry (1997) and Celebrity—all rated R, uncommon for him, and all very dark.

     To briefly return to David Lynch’s significance as a dark filmmaker, I have to include David Cronenberg as being equally important for me. During my life those 2 Davids have been the masters of personal, challenging, original, dark cinema. And to wrap this all up and get to the part where I actually talk about Joker (2019, Todd Phillips), I’ll just say that reflecting on the characteristics of films by Lynch and Cronenberg is rewarding to find how vastly they differ. For one, I love how Cronenberg’s work from early on is so serious. When I get in the mood straight horror (no comedy) sometimes I can’t wait to watch early Cronenberg.

     Joker is foremost a comic book origin story that succeeds as a character piece. The setting is established superbly—sleazy early ‘80s NYC.  But most of all the film is exceptional in its intricate relentless contrast of tone between comedy and tragedy (or more like horror).

     The opening scene encapsulates the essence of the tonal contrast with JOKER (Joaquin Phoenix) in front of a mirror in a dressing room molding his mouth in an expression morphing back and forth from Thalia to Melpomene.

     When I say I like dark movies, I have come to understand what kinds and why I respond to them. But I also know my boundaries. Joker pushes those boundaries. Joker makes me uncomfortable and even scares me at times. But I enjoy it because it never forgets that it’s a comic book. The film scares me because it depicts a specific type of other: the person who wants to be famous or adored by crowds; who becomes unhealthily obsessed with celebrities and/or fantasizes about confronting politicians; who incites riots; who plans acts of terrorism; who gets so desperate he or she has nothing left to lose. And though I’ll make the distinction that Joker is a comic book and not a satire or political allegory, I will say it’s uncomfortably close to the current climate of society’s mass shootings in, of all public places, movie theaters. What scares me is the thought of someone identifying with the violence as a means to fame and knowing that those people exist. Also though I’m afraid of clowns (and circuses—all those animals in captivity is sad).

     Yet just at the moments I am scared, a joke makes me laugh spontaneously. Then I start distancing myself from Joker and saddened by his illness, his violence, then laugh again. Joker relies on zingers, and pratfall type jokes for its unexpectedly placed laughs, which I enjoy because it’s not like you’re laughing at the violence itself but at some Vaudeville shtick.

     The familiarly nasty 42^nd street of the ‘80s with its porno theaters, graffiti subway cars, and muggings provides the perfect setting for  Joker’s development, but also safely distances the terror from the present. Phoenix’s emaciated body and gaunt face display method dedication but also an added layer of depravity, enhanced with a habit of desperate chain-smoking; his hair when dry is a pathetic style similar to Anton Chigurh’s; and his polyester wardrobe is depressing, especially that maroon vest and slacks outfit [shudders of revulsion].

     To close I’ll say that I very much enjoy Joker. And even though it makes me extremely uncomfortable, its dark content never feels gratuitous or exploitative. Also, there are few movies that so heavily and consciously utilize the contrast between the smiling mask of comedy and frowning mask of drama.

     One very minor complaint I feel begrudgingly compelled to add is that after about the fourth time I saw the device where a character is reading something and we only see parts of a page to get a fragmented sense of the whole I felt like I'd had enough. Y'kow? A couple of times it's okay, but c'mon don't over do it.