By Kevin D. Williamson
Wednesday, October 09, 2019
Joker is a fine little movie if an ultimately
unsatisfying one. It is an experiment of a sort, making a comic-book
origin-story film in the style of the self-consciously heavy neo-noir American
films of the 1970s — the Expanded Scorsese Cinematic Universe, basically. But
Murray Franklin, the Carsonesque late-show host played by Robert De Niro,
identifies the film’s great flaw in a moment of within-the-movie
meta-criticism: Arthur Fleck’s story suffers from an excess of pity.
The problem is not Fleck’s self-pity, which is an
inevitable and necessary current of the drama at hand. The problem is the pity
of the film’s writers and directors, who have given us an entirely conventional
and artistically timid account of evil carefully fitted to early 21st-century
sensibilities: Fleck is a gentle soul who suffers from a mental illness that
might be manageable if not for the cruelty and indifference of the world around
him — the inept city government that cuts funds for his mental-health program,
his damaged and ineffectual mother, the domineering Trump-style
millionaire-politician who may be his father, the plain meanness at the heart
of late-night television comedy, and, in a sop to the Reddit boys, the
hostility of young women who decline to see the good heart within the man who
is terrorizing and stalking them. Joker’s account of evil is mechanistic and
transactional, summed up in his killing joke: “What do you get when you cross a
mentally ill loner with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash?
You get what you deserve.”
The problem of evil has bedeviled Christian thinkers from
the beginning. Men of faith and men struggling to keep their faith alike have
found themselves paralyzed by the question: “How could it be that God, being
both good and omnipotent, allows evil in the world?” Often this is asked in
relation to some private tragedy: “Mr. Smith was a good man — why did he get
cancer?” Denis Leary was covering the same moral territory in his standup act
back in the Nineties: “John Lennon takes six bullets in the chest. Yoko Ono is
standing right next to him, not one bullet! Explain that to me, God!” This is
the adolescent form of moral theology, based on the presumption that God owes
us an explanation, that we are entitled to have Him justify Himself to us. The
existence of evil requires no more divine justification than the existence of
anything else, but we keep trying, because we would rather believe almost
anything, no matter how absurd — consider the intellectual careers of Sigmund
Freud, Karl Marx, or Michel Foucault — rather than face the terrifying facts of
the case.
Joaquin Phoenix’s Joker is a little Satan. He is wearing
the “moral dignity pants” that Hannibal Lecter once warned against before
author Thomas Harris embraced the mechanistic tick-tock morality of our time.
The charismatic cannibal describes the situation with perfect clarity to FBI
agent Clarice Starling, the obedient personification of rule-following:
“Nothing happened to me . . . I happened. You can’t reduce me to a set of
influences. You’ve given up good and evil for behaviorism . . . . You’ve got
everybody in moral dignity pants — nothing is ever anybody’s fault. Look at me
. . . . Can you stand to say I’m evil?” With the triumph of therapeutic
culture, nothing ever is anybody’s fault, and nobody has to be understood as
evil. Indeed, such an understanding would, given therapeutic assumptions, prove
incoherent. Phoenix has played around with the dramatic possibilities of mental
illness in the past, staging an Andy Kaufmann–style hoax in the form of a
public mental breakdown in service of the film I’m Still Here. But the
mental-illness moral get-out-of-jail-free card works against drama rather than
in its service. If there’s nothing at stake that a couple of bureaucratic
tweaks couldn’t mitigate, then why invest all that time in the story? If it is
the case, as the film suggests, that Arthur Fleck’s troubles all go back to a childhood
bonk on the head, then the story may be sad, but it is not interesting. I
suppose, the times being what they are, I should note that I write that as
somebody who knows a great deal more about childhood concussions that he would
prefer to.
The prisons and mental wards are full of people with
stories that might rightly inspire pity in us. They also are full of a great
many people who inspire no pity whatsoever in anybody with a functional moral
sense. Some people are abused and grow up to be saints. Some people are abused
and grow up to be monsters. Some people have happy childhoods and grow up to be
saints. Some people have happy childhoods and grow up to be monsters. Suffering
is a variable in the human equation, but isolating the variable in this case
leads us astray. The richer and more terrifying problem upon which to meditate
is the fact that the world is full of Arthur Flecks whose evil is not the
result of psychological conditioning but is — or at least seems to be — ex
nihilo.
We as a culture do seem ready to stay stuck in our
resentful adolescence. We seem to be very angry at our mothers — Joker’s
Arthur Fleck is a variation on the theme of Norman Bates — even as we remain
unable to confront our fathers: When Fleck tries, he is reduced to sarcastically
asking for a hug and gets a punch in the nose instead. Fight Club’s
Tyler Durden dismisses his mother — he diagnoses his peers’ problem as being “a
generation of men raised by women” — and fantasizes about fist-fighting his
father. Mothers have had it pretty rough in pop culture for the past 40 years.
Not that they don’t deserve it.
A more engaged and active mode of rebellion against the
father figure characterized some earlier heroes of art and literature,
prominent among them Satan. (Two literary approaches to Satan, Milton’s and Dante’s,
conclude my book The Smallest Minority.) The Bible itself gives us a
very accusing and seemingly contradictory account of the Adversary, and the
Romantic tradition has given us a Satan that is more easily incorporated into
our adolescent school of contemporary morality. But the problem of evil is
really no “problem” at all, of no more consequence than Scholastic inquiries
about the legions of angels dancing on the head of a pin. It is utterly
obvious, and utterly mysterious. The Christian inquirer faces a problem rather
like that of the scholar of evolution: There is no point of observation outside
of the phenomenon under study from which to look in while standing apart. The
ultimate facts of the case are right at our fingertips and unknowable. The greater
and more interesting personifications of evil found in superior works of
literature are grounded in that mystery, which we, for some reason, have
forgotten how to contemplate. It is time to Make Satan Great Again.
This is, in the context of the film, a dramatic question
rather than an urgently moral one. The purpose of cinema is not to provide us
with moral instruction or social propaganda. If anything, the problem with Joker
is that it is too milky, too accommodating, and neither cruel nor shocking
enough. As a question of drama, the moral lifelessness of Joker is a
defect that cannot be made up for with writing, acting, or music, excellent as
those all are in the film. The story of Joker is just something that
happens to Fleck, morally and cinematically no different from being struck by a
car, as he is at one point. The moral stakes of the story are what connect us
to Arthur Fleck, who is not as alone as he supposes or as the filmmakers
suppose. To the extent that the connection is attenuated, the protagonist
undergoes a severance from the audience that is much more radical and complete
than the character’s severance from the uncaring and unnoticing Gotham around
him.
This is not a question of empathy, religion, or social
do-goodery, but one of competent story-telling, which requires a foundation
firmer and sturdier than mere tenderheartedness and social psychology are able
to provide.
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