As the audience watched Arthur, suppressing his laughter while handing the worn card to the Black mother, their emotions surged. Pain, loneliness, restraint, injustice—Arthur's kindness and desperate desire to belong stirred their hearts.
Daniel Mann's eyes welled up, fists clenched tight. If he weren't in a theater, he'd scream, "This damn world!" His roommate, Adam Davis, was worse, softly sobbing. "It's not fair. Arthur's so kind—why treat him like this?"
"God, he's too pitiful!"
"He's good. He doesn't deserve this."
Across over 3,000 U.S. theaters showing The Joker, similar murmurs filled the air. Martin's masterful acting and the script's relentless push had hooked the audience, making Arthur's injustices their own.
Onscreen, the scene darkened. Arthur returned to his dilapidated apartment building, checking the mailbox as he always did for his mother—a ritual yielding nothing. His mother, Penny, wrote regularly to her former employer, Thomas Wayne (yes, young Batman's father), begging for financial aid, but never received replies.
Every Friday night, the happiest moments for mother and son were watching The Murray Franklin Show (starring Robert De Niro) together on their worn couch. Murray, a veteran talk show host, was Arthur's idol. He studied Murray's life, dreaming of becoming a comedy star like him.
The scene shifted to a younger Arthur at The Murray Franklin Show's live taping, where Murray called him onstage to share his story. Nervously clutching the mic, Arthur recounted his joyless childhood—fatherless, devoted to his ailing mother, still single, living in a rundown apartment to care for her. He spoke of his dream to be a great talk show comedian like Murray.
Moved, Murray pulled him up, offering fatherly encouragement. For the first time, Arthur felt paternal warmth, adopting Murray as a spiritual father. This rare warm moment in the film drew smiles from the audience.
But most didn't realize Martin was setting them up—this fleeting comfort would soon be shattered into something vile and nauseating. Seasoned critics, like James Blen, sensed a twist, scribbling "Reversal!" in his notebook, a chill running down his spine. He glanced at the packed theater, wondering, Will these manipulated viewers rage online or worship Martin? He was eager to find out.
Kevin Thomas, beside him, worried this film might be Martin's box-office Waterloo. Despite the fiery early screenings, a backlash could tank its momentum, as seen with Tom Cruise's Mission: Impossible III last year. Critics and audiences weren't yet grasping the thrill of a villain's origin story.
The film's genius was simple: its oppressive first half built unbearable tension, priming viewers for an explosive emotional release. Everyone hides a demon behind a mask—who can strip it off to face their dark humanity? Not even Batman. But the Joker does.
When Arthur, pushed to his breaking point, becomes the Joker—a pure embodiment of evil—the audience's pent-up empathy would erupt, urging them to burn the world with him. That was The Joker's exhilarating core, the reason for its original timeline success.
The next day, Arthur entered the locker room, shedding his clothes. Gasps filled theaters—his emaciated, twisted frame was Martin? The haunting image of Arthur, sitting in a dim room under a single beam of light, writhing as if breaking invisible chains, stunned viewers. His spine protruded, shoulder blades jutting like wings, his body slightly deformed. Scars from yesterday's beating marked his malnourished frame, alongside ill-fitting shoes.
A coworker, Randall, a hefty clown actor, handed Arthur a gun for self-defense. As feared, Arthur's boss didn't buy his story about the stolen sign, docking his pay for the damage. Arthur's face held a subservient smile, but his suppressed rage was palpable.
"Damn it, hit him! Kick his ass!" Adam growled under his breath. The audience shared his fury, but Arthur held back—his mother's mantra to "keep smiling" restrained him. Instead, he vented on a trash pile downstairs, laughing maniacally, amplifying viewers' frustration. Pity for Arthur mixed with anger at his passivity.
On his way home, in the elevator, Arthur met Sophie (Cameron Diaz), a single mother from his building. Her radiant smile and brief chat lifted his spirits. Most viewers saw it: Arthur was smitten. Cameron straightened in her seat beside Martin, who tactfully removed his hand from her shoulder. He knew when to play his part.