The screenplay, by Phillips and Scott Silver, does make several witty additions to Joker lore. One of these is that Arthur has a medical condition related to Tourette’s syndrome, which forces him to dissolve into fits of cackles at the most inconvenient moments. Phoenix makes these fits both blood-chilling and heartbreaking. The script also repositions the Joker as an anti-hero (or super-anti-hero), an accidental vigilante who guns down three Wall Street brats in self-defence, thus inspiring Gotham’s underclass to put on clown masks and protest against the city’s fat cats – including the interestingly thuggish and unsympathetic Thomas Wayne. Well, OK. Phillips and Silver are entitled to imagine any version of the Joker they like. But their film is way too superficial to take seriously as a study of class conflict and mental illness. And, compared to the sadistic mastermind who has been in the comics and on screen, its protagonist is strangely passive and unthreatening. Batman could polish off this poor sap without crumpling his cape.

For what it’s worth, Joker is superior to the aforementioned Suicide Squad and Venom. Its flawless recreation of an earlier decade is a remarkable feat of impersonation. And I would dearly love it if Phoenix revisited the character in a sequel. But the idea that Joker is significantly more mature and intelligent than previous superhero (or supervillain) films? You must be joking.

★★★☆☆

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