As Martin's performance wrapped, Joaquin Phoenix witnessed something even more astonishing. The guy sat there for a moment, then effortlessly snapped out of character.
Hollywood had long whispered about Martin's ability to slip into and out of roles with uncanny speed. Now Phoenix saw it was true.
'What an enviable gift,' he thought.
Spotting Martin approaching, Phoenix instinctively moved to meet him, eager to discuss the performance.
"I finally get why you had to lose the weight," Phoenix began. "Analyzing Arthur's state—he's trapped in this stifling, hopeless existence. Anxiety, hesitation, frustration, sleepless nights—his body couldn't be healthy. And that move you just did, crossing your arms behind your back? It screamed this desperate need to break free but being unable to. The physicality was unreal, like all these negative pressures formed a cocoon around Arthur, trapping him, dragging him down..."
Caught up in his excitement, Phoenix mimicked Martin's gesture, then groaned. "No, I'm not getting it right. It's missing that feeling. Maybe I'm too heavy—dropping twenty pounds might help."
Martin chuckled. "Joaquin, you really love Arthur's character, don't you?"
Phoenix froze, suddenly embarrassed, realizing his enthusiasm might've come off as trying to steal Martin's role.
"No, no, no, that's not it—sorry, I just loved that scene," he stammered.
"Relax, Joaquin," Martin said warmly. "I admire your passion for acting. It's fantastic."
He meant it. To Martin, Phoenix was one of those rare "devoted performers," treating the craft with reverence. A talent like that deserved more opportunities, and Martin didn't mind offering them. Maybe Phoenix wouldn't get the career-defining Arthur role like in the original timeline, but Martin could at least ensure he'd never be out of work.
Call it compensation.
The Joker's production rolled along smoothly—so smoothly that Martin, juggling roles as director and lead, found time to visit another set.
In a New York suburb, a temporary studio had been set up in a cluster of old buildings. Guided by producer Mike Medavoy, Martin entered the space.
"Sorry, Mr. Meyers," Mike said sheepishly. "We're filming, so please keep quiet once we're inside."
Martin nodded with a grin. "Don't worry, I'm not dumb enough to sabotage my own movie."
Stepping into the studio, Martin felt a wave of familiarity. The setup mimicked New York's Lincoln Center theater. Onstage, Natalie Portman, draped in a pristine white ballet dress, danced with ethereal grace. She'd trained for a year to master ballet for this role.
"Cut! That was fantastic, everyone—take a break," called director Darren Aronofsky. Only then, nudged by Mike, did he notice Martin and hurried over.
"Welcome, welcome, Mr. Meyers!" Aronofsky said. "Any thoughts on what we just shot?"
Martin caught the hint of nerves in the acclaimed director's voice and lightened the mood with a quip. "Hey, I'm just here to snoop. Filming's your job—I'm not doing it for free."
The room erupted in laughter, and Aronofsky visibly relaxed.
Known for Requiem for a Dream, Aronofsky had a knack for artistic filmmaking, his work both critically acclaimed and commercially solid.
Just then, Natalie, fresh from changing, approached. Her eyes sparkled at Martin, though fatigue shadowed her makeup-caked face.
As she neared, Aronofsky and Mike tactfully excused themselves.
Martin studied Natalie as she sat before him, concern creeping in. "Nata, you look worn out. You're not sick, are you?"
She shook her head, beckoning him closer, and pressed her cheek against his hand. "I'm fine, just exhausted. My ballet skills still aren't quite there—some of the harder moves are a stretch, and I've had to rely on a double."
But pride flickered in her voice. "Still, I nailed most of the moves myself."
Her amber eyes gazed up at Martin, wide and eager, like a schoolkid awaiting a teacher's praise.
Martin smiled, ruffling her hair. "My Nata's phenomenal."
She giggled, beaming.
"How do you have time to visit?" she asked. "I talked to Popo—Cameron—the other day, and she said you're swamped."
"Swamped, sure, but things are going well," Martin said. "And no matter how busy I am, I've got to check in on my little treasure."
His sweet talk never failed to charm, and just as Natalie leaned in for a kiss, a voice interrupted.
"Whoa, is that Martin? Nata, not gonna introduce me?"
They turned to see Mila Kunis, a Ukrainian-born actress and Natalie's close friend. Natalie had even recommended her for a role in the film.
"Mira, this is Martin, uh, my friend," Natalie said.
"Friend, huh?" Mila teased, winking at Natalie before extending a hand to Martin. "Hi, Mr. Meyers. Call me Mira."
"Hey, Mira. Call me Martin."
Mila joined their chat, grinning. "I heard from Mike we had a visitor, and I thought it was Macaulay. Didn't expect you, Martin."
"Macaulay's her boyfriend," Natalie explained.
Martin's curiosity piqued. "Macaulay—as in Home Alone Macaulay Culkin?"
"Yup," Natalie confirmed. "Mira and Macaulay have been together for five years."