In the theaters, seasoned viewers sensed what was coming. After Arthur killed his mother, the last tether to his humanity snapped. Unburdened, he was free to act without restraint.
In a crimson suit, golden vest, green hair, white face, and red lips, softened by gentle lighting, Arthur was vibrant, alive, real. He danced down the long staircase, no longer dim and oppressive but bathed in lively sunlight. Gone was his loneliness, replaced by a phoenix-like confidence. He had found himself.
The music swelled—Martin's song Thatgirl—as Arthur danced. A sunlit rain fell, refreshing and vibrant, brimming with life. Kevin Thomas saw deeper, writing: "God weeps for what's to come, as His child falls into the devil's embrace."
James Blen countered: "Arthur, dancing in the rain, sheds his chains, soaring like a featherless bird in freedom."
The two detectives pursuing Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs, shouting for him to stop. Laughing shrilly, he ran, darting into a subway car packed with clown-masked protesters. The detectives followed, roughly shoving through the crowd, sparking outrage. The "Jokers" beat them down. Through the subway window, Arthur watched, performing a gleeful, mocking dance as the crowd cheered.
Exiting the subway, he passed rushing police with newfound swagger—calm, fearless. Observant viewers noticed his transformed stride. At The Murray Franklin Show's backstage, he scrawled on a mirror in red lipstick: "Put.On.A.Happy.Face!"
Twirling his revolver, Arthur no longer dreamed of being a comedian spreading joy. He saw through it all. Tonight, he'd bring sorrow and fear. For the first time, he'd make himself happy.
Murray Franklin visited backstage, giving casual instructions, dismissive of Arthur's feelings. Arthur, equally indifferent, interrupted, "Can you introduce me as Joker?" Murray was taken aback.
Finally, Arthur took the stage to applause, dancing with confident, erratic grace. No longer nervous or stiff, he moved freely, even planting a bold kiss on an elderly female guest. Murray asked for a joke. Arthur opened his notebook, lingering on his old note: "I hope my death means more than my life."
A metaphor clicked for viewers, recalling his home rehearsals: Arthur had planned to kill himself on air. Instead, he told a grim "joke": "Knock knock. It's the police, ma'am. Your son's been hit by a drunk driver."
The audience booed; it wasn't funny. Murray scolded him—such things weren't for jokes. Arthur apologized, then, with grave sincerity, confessed: "I killed those three Wall Street guy..."
"Why mourn those scumbags? If I dropped dead on the street, you wouldn't blink. Thomas Wayne cries for them on TV—are their lives worth more?"
Murray challenged his credibility. Arthur grinned like an innocent child: "I don't care. My life's a comedy."
"You think killing is funny?" Murray asked, baffled.
"Yes, All of you... The system that knows so much... you decide what's right and wrong, the same way that you decide what's funny, or not." Arthur shot back. "Do you know how broken this society is, Murray? Everyone screams at each other, no respect, no empathy. Do people like Thomas Wayne care about people like me? No. They think we're kids who'll take it quietly, never fight back."
The audience saw Arthur's brazen confidence and knew—he wouldn't kill himself. So what would he do?
Murray called his rant self-pity, an excuse for murder, insisting not everyone was rotten. Arthur, enraged, sneered, "You're awful, Murray."
Murray asked "Me? I'm awful? Oh yeah, how am i awful?,"
Joker said "Playing my video, inviting me on the show, you just wanted to make a fun of me. You're just like the rest of them."
Joker laugh loudly and asked again "How about another joke, Murray? What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that abandons him and treat him like trash!? I'll tell you what you get. You get what you fucking deserve!"
He drew his gun, aimed at Murray, and fired. Bang! Without hesitation, he get up, then shot him again and walked to the camera with a wide, satisfied grin.
"That was so cathartic, I let out all my rage!"
"Damn, I think I just climaxed!"
In the theater, Quentin Tarantino smirked—he'd predicted Martin's move. But his smile soured. The Joker wasn't just dark and oppressive; it was exhilarating, insanely so. His own Inglourious Basterds, premiering soon, felt at risk. Brad Pitt's face was already grim.
At the Grand Theatre, Leonardo DiCaprio sighed to Jack Nicholson: "I've long admired Martin's acting, but in The Joker, he's reached a terrifying pinnacle. Oscar's king? He's the king of kings!"
"Shut up, I don't want to hear it!" Nicholson snapped.
[TL/N: The author is pissing me off, he changed the script and scene here. forcing me to rewrite.]