Main cast: Joaquin Phoenix (Arthur Fleck), Lady Gaga (Lee Quinzel), Brendan Gleeson (Jackie Sullivan), Catherine Keener (Maryanne Stewart), Zazie Beetz (Sophie Dumond), Steve Coogan (Paddy Meyers), Harry Lawtey (Harvey Dent), Leigh Gill (Gary Puddles), Ken Leung (Dr Victor Liu), Jacob Lofland (Ricky Meline), Bill Smitrovich (Judge Herman Rothwax), and Sharon Washington (Debra Kane)
Director: Todd Phillips
This reviewer must confess, right out of the gate, that he was never part of the cult of Joker.
The first film, in my humble and probably soon-to-be-mobbed opinion, was an overrated, heavy-handed trauma porn slog — the cinematic equivalent of a self-pitying diary entry scrawled in eyeliner on a cracked bathroom mirror. Subtlety? Nuance? Forget it. Joker was about as delicate as being hit in the face with a brick labeled “SYMPATHIZE WITH ME”.
However, what truly elevated that otherwise forgettable film into a culture war flashpoint wasn’t its quality — or lack thereof — but the internet’s deranged need for content.
Sensing clickbait gold, media outlets branded it an incel manifesto, a cinematic call to arms for every aggrieved, basement-dwelling malcontent with a 4chan account and a chip on their shoulder. Not to be outdone, anti-woke grifters immediately rallied behind it like it was the Citizen Kane of fragile masculinity. The film itself was never that deep but by God, the think pieces poured in like it was Gone with the Wind for terminally online weirdos.
Which brings us, with the grace of a drunk clown tripping over a rake, to Joker: Folie à Deux.
Now, here’s where it gets ridiculous: Todd Phillips, the director whose cinematic career peaked with The Hangover, apparently felt guilty about the alt-right fandom his movie accidentally attracted. His solution? Team up with Joaquin “I Swear I’m Profound” Phoenix — who, God love him, might be a phenomenal actor but sounds like a conspiracy theorist in the throes of a three-day ayahuasca trip every time he gives an interview — and make a sequel based on a dream Phoenix had. Because when has that ever gone wrong?
Better still, they demanded full creative control, told Warner Bros to piss off, and apparently no studio suits were allowed to see the final cut until it was too late. Which, given what followed, feels less like artistic integrity and more like premeditated career arson.
The rumors were true: it’s a musical. Yes, a goddamn musical. Not a stylish, clever, subversive one like Cabaret or Sweeney Todd, but a relentless, joyless dirge punctuated the main cast warbling through flat and forgettable torch songs while the Joker gets beaten, raped, and ultimately stabbed to death in prison.
That’s your movie. That’s it. No grand statements, no character arcs, no catharsis — just two hours of relentless misery because Mr Phillips had a grudge against… someone. The internet? His own past? Society? Your guess is as good as mine.
In an act of either cowardice or sublime trolling, Todd Phillips skipped the premiere entirely, retreating to his ranch like a man avoiding process servers, and promptly announced he would never do another DC movie again. Warner Bros, meanwhile, was left holding the bag: ballooned budgets, obscenely large salaries for Todd Phillips, Joaquin Phoenix, and Lady Gaga, and what might be one of the most infamous box office faceplants in cinematic history. Think Heaven’s Gate with face paint.
Joker: Folie à Deux isn’t a movie. It’s a middle finger wrapped in soggy toilet paper, gleefully flung at audiences, critics, Warner Bros, and anyone foolish enough to buy a ticket.
It insults the fans of the first movie, casual viewers, and even its own existence. It’s so brazenly self-indulgent, so aggressively unpleasant, it’s almost admirable in its commitment to being terrible. Almost.
In short: well played, Todd Phillips. You nuked your own meal ticket from orbit. May you never direct anything again.
