When Joker was released back in 2019, some even called it a masterpiece. The film’s high-definition realism and bleak nihilism offered a topical, fresh take on the much-beloved supervillain. Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix), an isolated-yet-gentle failed comedian with mental health problems, is failed by every system that is supposed to take care of him. His descent into lunacy is a result of society’s failings, not an inherent evil or psychopathy. Gotham is burned to the ground, and Thomas Wayne, father to the future Batman, is dethroned as a bully and false emperor.
In 2019, this version of Joker’s struggle for Gotham’s soul worked. Covid-19 was making its way to the United States, condemning us all to a long period of isolation and stress. Donald Trump’s presidency was emboldening hate groups throughout America. George Floyd’s murder in mid-2020 resulted in widespread protests that reflected the outpouring of anger in Joker’s final scenes. The film offered genuine insight into the public mood, and was rewarded with generally good reviews and box office success.
Joker: Folie à Deux does not work. Directed by Todd Phillips and with the same creative team as the original, it’s hard to tell how the sequel went so wrong, so fast. The costumes and sets are high-quality. Lawrence Sher’s cinematography is wonderfully grimy and dramatic. Lady Gaga is skillful as the deranged Harley Quinn to Fleck’s Joker. Even the decision to make the movie a musical feels appropriate in the context of Fleck’s break from reality. But while Joker had a hero’s (or anti-hero’s) story, Joker: Folie à Deux’s plot of Fleck’s imprisonment in the brutal Arkham State Hospital and trial for murder meanders on with no purpose or obvious audience. There is no more cultural mood to tap into, no fresh take on an over-renditioned cartoon. It’s just a nothingburger of horror.
Unlike in Joker, which witnessed a full character transformation and societal upheaval, nothing actually ends up happening in Joker: Folie à Deux. Fleck is marched back and forth between courthouse and cell, terrorized by sadistic guards, falls headfirst into a relationship with so little chemistry I cringed every time Phoenix and Lady Gaga were on screen together. Harvey Dent, played by a handsome Harry Lawtey, is cast as the prosecutor on Fleck’s murder case, but has none of the yummy capitalist greed as the original’s Thomas Wayne. In fact, we find ourselves rooting for him over the obnoxious and defeated Arthur, who never even does anything as Joker: not a crime, not a murder, just one tepid escape attempt that goes nowhere. The film’s ending is random to the point of absurdity.
As for the musical scenes, I felt they were used as an excuse to break up a script mostly just killing time. Lady Gaga’s immense talent was put to use on limp songs seemingly unconnected to the plot, while Phoenix’s acting chops were given nothing to work with – just a Potemkin village of meaningless violence that had audience members checking their watches for when we could finally go home.
If this film had a message to tell, I would be all ears. But Joker already made his stand. There was no need to drag this killer clown out for an encore.
