In Harvey's eyes, Gotham was a paradise for criminals.
From the moment he arrived in this city, he began his crusade to end evil with violence.
But it wasn't enough. His power was insignificant compared to the scale of crime here.
Just when he thought the city was beyond saving, the Bat appeared.
Batman's arrival changed everything. Criminals spoke of him in fear.
Clad in black, he soared across Gotham's skies, casting light on the city through brutal justice—while still refusing to kill.
Harvey became one of his staunchest supporters, though he disagreed with Batman's "no killing" principle.
Just when he believed that he, Gordon, and Batman could join forces to pull the city back from the brink—this fragile hope was shattered by one man:The Joker.
The "duel of dual heroes" model isn't rare in Hollywood films, and some have become true classics—like John Woo's Face/Off, often hailed as one of the most iconic American crime thrillers of the 1990s.
But this was different. The conflict between Batman and the Joker had a unique magnetism.
Their confrontation wasn't just cop versus criminal—it was a clash of ideologies.The Joker wanted to corrupt Batman.Batman wanted to redeem the Joker.And Martin's extraordinary portrayal elevated this ideological battle to unforgettable heights.
As the film progressed, even many adult viewers couldn't help but start rooting for the Joker.
"Here he comes again..."
David Denby had noticed something peculiar. Every time the Joker appeared on screen, the audience—including himself—became more engrossed than during Batman's scenes. The only exceptions were the kids in the audience—who instinctively sided with Batman.
The Joker was simply that charismatic—and utterly theatrical.
Antihero archetypes weren't new to Hollywood, but there had never been a villain quite like this Joker—one who commanded everyone's attention in every scene.
On the screen, a scene shifted into dark comedy.
The Joker wasn't just giving the righteous side of Gotham a headache—he was driving the criminal underworld insane too!
Gotham's gangs convened for a meeting. First, they debated how to handle Batman. Then someone suggested putting a price on the Joker's head—a sentiment many shared.
But then came the twist. Before they could act, the Joker strolled right into the meeting room, uninvited.
Martin's Joker entered, surveyed the crowd, let out a chilling laugh, and with his trademark deranged voice, offered to kill Batman—for a price: half of the gangs' money.
One gangster exploded:"You robbed us, and now you want to make deals? I'd rather put a bounty on your head!"
Another snapped:"Give me one reason not to have my men rip your head off right now!"
The Joker didn't argue. Instead, he glanced at the crime lords and said calmly:
"How about a magic trick?"
He jammed a pencil into the table.
Spinning his hand above it, he asked,"Wanna see me make this pencil disappear?"
One of the black boss's lackeys stepped forward, eager to show off.
The Joker suddenly grabbed his head—and slammed it down. Hard.
The pencil went straight into the man's eye socket. He collapsed, lifeless.
The Joker clapped his hands and grinned:"Ta-da! It's gone."
Gasps rippled through the theater.
"Sh*t, that scared me!"
"Best damn magic trick I've ever seen!"
On screen, the black gang boss erupted:"Five million for his head! A million if he's alive—I'll teach him what rules mean!"
The entire room surged forward to take down the Joker.
Then the Joker opened his coat.
Inside: grenades and bombs, all wired and primed.
Grinning maniacally, he hooked his finger into a grenade pin ring and dangled it like a threat.
"You might want to rethink that. I'm the only one who can deal with Batman. Not this... clown."
He pointed casually at the black boss, pouted, and backed slowly out of the room.
Before leaving, he turned around—and the camera zoomed in on his eyes.
Audible gasps echoed through cinemas nationwide.
That stare—how to describe it?
It was the expression of someone who saw all life as meaningless. Everyone in the audience knew: the Joker was about to unleash chaos again.
"Damn, that kind of acting is just—indescribable."
Staring at the screen, David Denby shook his head in awe.
Unlike casual viewers, he could dissect the cinematography and subtext. Muttering to himself, he whispered:
"How does he portray evil so viscerally? It doesn't feel like acting—it is the Joker. A madman made flesh... He's not just scaring the characters in the film—he's unnerving us."
And inside the theater...
The audience was torn—half horrified, half in awe.
As the embodiment of chaos, the Joker was now warring with criminals just as much as with the police.
He had no allegiance, no ideology—just pure, unfiltered madness. They'd never seen a villain like him.
On screen, several gangsters presented a large body bag to the black boss at a gang meeting.
The boss unzipped it—revealing the Joker's body.
He chuckled and turned toward the men who brought it:"Well, if he's dead, that's five hundred grand."
But then—suddenly—the Joker sat up.
The gangsters turned in shock.
The Joker pounced, grabbing one of their heads and pressing a blade to the man's mouth.
"Let's put a smile on that face."