The scene shifts.
Arthur, in full clown makeup, holds a signboard, juggling on a street corner—one of his daily gigs. Suddenly, a group of young punks snatch the sign and bolt. Arthur chases them into a deserted alley, where they beat him mercilessly. Frail and defenseless, he rolls on the ground, erupting in shrill, uncontrollable laughter—a symptom of his mental illness.
His laughter, mistaken as defiance, only fuels the thugs' brutality. They leave him battered, and the camera lingers on Arthur's vivid appearance: red lips, white face, green wig, bright yellow vest, and a garish red flower on his chest, stark against the alley's gloom. Trash-strewn black bags, graffiti-covered walls, a greenish filter, and a low-angle shot amplify the oppressive, contradictory atmosphere. The torn pieces of his bright yellow sign scattered on the ground sear into the audience's eyes.
Kevin Thomas, captivated, scribbles in his notebook: "Clever cinematography and stark color contrasts highlight how a vibrant soul is crushed in a bleak, repressive world. This shot foreshadows Arthur's fate and Gotham's deeper crisis."
Losing the sign costs Arthur his pay, plus he must compensate his boss and likely lose the job. He trudges through Gotham's desolate streets, littered with uncollected trash, surrounded by hurried, indifferent passersby. The green filter persists, with only Arthur's bright colors standing out, intensifying his isolation.
The scene shifts to a government-assigned therapist's office. Arthur, after a long bout of uncontrollable laughter, regains control. His laughter here is less frantic than during the beating, tinged with helplessness and pain—perhaps because he trusts this therapist to help, revealing his raw emotions.
But, as always, there's no real care. The female therapist asks routine questions, scribbling absently. When the camera zooms in, her "notes" are mere doodles. The lens pans the room, piled with case files, hinting at her heavy caseload, before settling on Arthur's earnest face—perhaps seeing her as his last hope.
Facing her cold questions, Arthur answers sincerely. She flips through his joke notebook, landing on a page scrawled in heavy ink: "I just hope my death is worth more than my life." The deep pen marks betray the force behind those words.
James Blen, next to Kevin, writes: "Details, details everywhere!"
The audience, stirred by Arthur's tragic encounters, feels a surge of sympathy and frustration. Yet the therapist remains indifferent, handing back the notebook with a callous question: "Do you know why you were in the mental hospital?"
It's like a slap followed by, "Why'd you make me do that?" The audience, already rooting for Arthur, bristles. Daniel Mann overhears his hesitant roommate, Adam Davis, mutter through gritted teeth, "You can't do that!" Daniel, equally enraged, stays silent—furious for Arthur, for the coldness. What did Arthur do wrong? Why treat him like this? Maybe he just can't fake indifference like most.
Countless viewers silently rage on Arthur's behalf.
The scene flashes to Arthur's time in the mental hospital. Notably, Martin ditches the film's signature cold green filter here, boosting saturation to make the hospital room bright and lively—a stark contrast to Gotham's grim streets and the therapist's oppressive office. Kevin Thomas hears James mutter, "The clocks, both identical, even the time." He notices the hospital's wall clock matches the therapist's, both frozen at 11:11.
Kevin writes: "This suggests the outside world is the real madhouse, while the hospital seems normal."
James notes: "The contrast blurs what's truly the asylum, hinting Arthur belongs in the hospital."
Post-therapy, Arthur rides a bus home. A young boy in front stares at his dejected expression. Recalling his mother's wish to spread joy, Arthur makes silly faces, coaxing a smile from the boy—a gesture of kindness. But the boy's mother snaps, "Stop bothering my son!" pulling him close.
As the boy, cowed, avoids Arthur, his face falls, and the audience feels his hurt. Then, Arthur's uncontrollable laughter erupts again. Under the mother's disdainful glare, he hands her a worn, yellowed card: "His laughter is not malicious; it's a mental condition he cannot control. Thank you, please return the card."
The card's wear shows years of use, and its existence reveals Arthur's awareness of his impact on others—and his effort to minimize it. The audience's hearts ache for his kindness.