The Joker has come a long way from being just a clown in a purple suit causing trouble for Batman. Once a straightforward comic book villain, he has evolved into something much bigger—a kind of cinematic Rorschach test that reflects whatever the filmmaker (or actor) wants him to be. Over the years, he’s been everything from a giggling prankster (Batman ‘66) to a sadistic agent of chaos (The Dark Knight) to a tragic, unraveling figure (Joker). Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just a villain and became a role—something actors covet the way they do Shakespeare’s Richard III.
The role itself has become larger than life, unpredictable, and, somehow, Oscar bait—a wild sentence to write about a comic book character. Now, with every new Joker announcement comes the weight of expectation. When a new actor becomes the Clown Prince, we have been conditioned to expect them to become fully immersed in the role—in some cases with method acting (sending their costars boxes of rats), in others with dramatic body transformations (Phoenix reportedly lost fifty pounds for the role). The Joker, at this point, has transcended Batman. He’s no longer just a silly comic book villain—he’s a symbol, a reflection of society’s fears, anxieties, and, let’s be honest, our fascination with charismatic lunatics.
So, who and what is the Joker in Todd Phillips’ divisive duology, and is it even fair to judge these films as comic book movies anymore?
When Joker hit theaters in 2019, people couldn’t stop talking about it. Was it an arthouse masterpiece or Baby’s First Taxi Driver with clown makeup? Was it a dangerous incel manifesto or a bold critique of society, capitalism, and the pharmaceutical industry? The Joker had become a storytelling mechanism, more so than an individual character. He is a figurative mirror to what you want him to reflect, and he’s to be taken seriously. Todd Phillips, best known for directing frat-boy comedies about getting wasted in Vegas or drunkenly streaking through the streets of suburbia, had somehow made the most talked-about comic book movie of the year—and Batman was nowhere to be seen.
Then, five years later, Joker: Folie à Deux arrived, bringing musical numbers, Lady Gaga, and a fresh round of debate. Some fans of the first film were thrilled, embracing its unconventional storytelling as a challenge to expectations. Others left theaters feeling like they’d been tricked into watching a very unsettling Broadway show that actively mocked them for expecting anything else.
Regardless of which camp you fall into, you’re right.
The writing in these films? Messy at best. The editing? Clunky (see: the painfully blunt reveal of Arthur’s imagined relationship with his neighbor). The direction? Competent for the most part—nothing groundbreaking. But there’s one thing Todd Phillips does excel at, and it’s what makes these films so different from standard comic book fare:
He knows how to make the audience complicit in the story, especially in pivotal moments.
And that’s precisely why so many people outright hate Folie à Deux.
I like to think of this ability of Phillips’ as the nexus of his films. And while I don’t particularly think of Phillips as a visionary director, this is an ability of his I don’t often see in other films, and he’s been refining it for a while. Let’s take a quick detour to The Hangover.
The genius of The Hangover isn’t just in its humor or Zach Galifianakis mispronouncing words. It’s in how Phillips places the audience inside the story. We don’t see the characters’ wild night through flashbacks; we experience their memory loss alongside them, piecing together the chaos in real time. There’s no dramatic irony—we don’t know anything the characters don’t. We are just as lost as they are, stumbling through their misadventure together. And seriously, go back and rewatch the movie, and pay close attention to the camera shots. When they’re waking up after the big night, the camera is on level with the floor, slowly rising alongside the characters. There’s the shot with the camera fixed on Ed Helms’ face, shaking as he shakes and turning as he turns, giving us the same disoriented feeling he’s experiencing. When the guys are driving around, we have shots from various seats in whichever car they’re in, like we’re all silent passengers along for the ride.
Phillips refines this technique in Joker, swapping blackout drunkenness for psychological breakdowns. We don’t just watch Arthur Fleck spiral into madness—we live it with him, often questioning what’s real and what isn’t. And nowhere is this trick more effective than in the film’s most unsettling sequence.
The climactic Murray Franklin Show scene isn’t just a pivotal moment—it’s a psychological ambush.
By the time Arthur sits down across from Robert De Niro’s smarmy late-night host, Phillips has already positioned us exactly where he wants us. The camera pulls back, revealing the full talk show set, framing the scene as if the movie theater audience is part of the studio audience. We’re no longer passive viewers—we’re in the room.
And because we’ve spent two hours trapped inside Arthur’s mind, we know something awful is coming before anyone else does.
Then, Arthur confesses his crimes to us. Murray calls for the police. Arthur raises his voice, yelling over Murray as the drums swell. The dread is unbearable.
And then Arthur pulls the trigger.
It’s horrifying. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: the way the film is structured, we want this moment. Not because it’s justifiable (it’s not, obviously), but because the entire film has framed this as the inevitable climax of Arthur’s transformation into the Joker. The tension has built to the point where this act of violence becomes disturbingly cathartic. It’s not just shocking—it feels right.
This is why Joker ultimately works. Phillips doesn’t just tell us Arthur’s story—he forces us to be part of it. We’re not omniscient observers. We’re the gasping studio audience. We witness Arthur becoming Joker, and in that moment, we can’t look away.
And then comes the sequel…
If Joker made you feel like part of Murray’s audience, Folie à Deux makes you feel like a jury member, a psychiatric inmate, and a Broadway patron—all at once.
The film’s title means “a shared delusion,” and it’s not just about Arthur and Harley—it’s about us. Phillips once again drags the audience into the film, shifting our perspective depending on the scene. Sometimes we’re the jury at Arthur’s trial, weighing his fate. Other times we’re the inmates at Arkham, watching his madness unfold and wondering what’s real. And sometimes we’re his imaginary audience, watching his theatrical musical numbers play out in his head.
However, the nexus of our audience surrogacy in the film I’d argue is in the courtroom, through the eyes of the jury.
Throughout the film, we’ve been waiting for Arthur to become the Joker again. We expect a grand, violent spectacle, a moment that reaffirms his mythos. We expect Joker to ride off into the sunset with Harley after everyone in the courtroom gets what they deserve. If Joker was Batman Begins, then surely Folie à Deux is The Dark Knight, right?
Wrong.
Arthur doesn’t rise to mythical status. He doesn’t want a revolution like Harley does. He doesn’t get the Maury moment the audience craves. Instead, from the seats of the jury, we watch and judge as Arthur expresses remorse. And just like that, the Joker fantasy crumbles.
We were waiting for the Joker to return, to “werewolf” into his iconic form again. But Arthur? He’s just some guy. And the movie refuses to let him be anything more.
One of the more fascinating aspects of Folie à Deux is how it weaponizes audience expectations. Fans of the first film wanted the sequel to raise the stakes, to take Arthur deeper into his villainous arc. Maybe we’d see him go full comic book mode, rallying his cult of followers and taking Gotham by storm. Maybe he’d meet this universe’s version of the Penguin or cross paths with The Scarecrow. Maybe he’d cook some nerve gas and dose the city with smiles.
Instead, the movie does the opposite: it shrinks Arthur’s world, removing the Joker mythos entirely.
This shift is what made some fans turn on the film. When Arthur Fleck isn’t the Joker, his actions feel different. In the first film, people cheered his rampage because it felt like the birth of an icon. But take away the legend, and suddenly it’s just… murder.
The brilliance (or cruelty) of Folie à Deux is that it forces audiences to reckon with this. We were fine with Arthur’s violence when we saw him as a comic book character, but the moment the film tells us he’s just a small, broken man with no grand plan, we lose interest. And that, in itself, is the point.
Some argue that Folie à Deux is Todd Phillips giving fans of the first movie a cinematic middle-finger. But the film isn’t mocking its audience—it’s challenging them.
Arthur’s actions are the same in both films, whether he calls himself “Joker” or not. But as soon as the movie strips him of the mythos, our investment wavers. We were entertained when he was a symbol, dancing down that stairwell—when he represented something bigger. It’s the dehumanization that allows the fascination to take precedence over any disgust at his actions. The Joker is a force of nature, but Arthur is dull. He’s gross. Pitiful.
And that’s the point.
Is Folie à Deux a perfect film? No. The musical numbers are weird. The pacing is bizarre. But it does something that most comic book movies don’t—it makes you think. It forces you to examine your own expectations, to question why you were drawn to Arthur as Joker but not as Arthur the man.
Love it or hate it, Todd Phillips got you involved.
And hey, if you’re still mad about the movie, give it a few years. We’ll be seeing new Jokers for the rest of our lives