"Dear God!" Alan Horn exclaimed, staring at the report in his hands. It was a satisfaction survey from a firm hired by Warner Bros. for The Joker: 68% rated it A+, 25% A, and only 7% below. Though just a test screening, it signaled unprecedented audience approval. No film in Hollywood history had matched such acclaim. The Joker was singular.
In Malibu, at a cozy villa Martin gifted Cameron Diaz—one of many such "nests" for his "collection"—a passionate encounter unfolded. "Give it to me, honey, all of it! I'll bear your child!" Diaz moaned, lost in the moment.
The next morning, Martin, nestled with a sleeping Diaz, was woken by his ringing phone. It was Drew. "Martin, last night's midnight box office numbers are out—staggering, my God, staggering!"
"How much?" Martin asked calmly.
"Wait, is Diaz there? Get that minx up—you both need to hear this. You've broken records."
Moments later, Diaz's groggy voice chimed in, "Drew, I'm awake. What's the box office?"
"Haha, last night's midnight screenings grossed $39.72 million across 3,440 theaters, averaging over $10,000 per theater. The Joker smashed records."
Diaz jolted upright, her excitement uncontained. "Babe, our movie broke records!" she squealed, hugging Martin's head tightly—too tightly. "Mmph, mmph!" he muffled.
"Aren't you thrilled? Say something!"
"Mmph, mmph!" Diaz realized she'd pressed Martin's face into her chest, quickly releasing him.
He surfaced, grinning. "Not bad, very nice."
Diaz puffed out her chest. "Of course."
"I meant the record," Martin teased.
"Oh, really?" She laughed, pulling him back for another playful smother before letting go. "Now?"
"Nice!" Martin nodded.
At Alan Horn's home, the Warner CEO was already awake, his age and restless thoughts cutting his sleep short. Reclining on a plush sofa, he savored a Cuban Cohiba cigar, exhaling contentedly. Beside him lay the midnight box office report, its bold red figures drawing a satisfied smile.
While Martin and Diaz reveled, and Horn relaxed, tension gripped Universal's boardroom. "We must ramp up promotion," Quentin Tarantino urged. "I'm confident in Inglourious Basterds, but it needs more visibility. The Joker can't hog the entire box office—we've got a shot."
Universal's VP glanced at Brad Pitt, who looked drained. The Joker had rattled him; he'd dreamt of unemployment, donning a clown mask to rob banks with the Joker, only to be caught by Martin in Batman armor.
After Tarantino sat, he nudged Pitt. "Your turn, buddy."
Pitt snapped to attention. "I back Quentin. We need a bigger promo budget. Inglourious Basterds is great—it can go toe-to-toe with The Joker."
"Toe-to-toe?" a Universal exec scoffed. "Theaters are packed for The Joker. Word is, major chains are expanding screenings."
"We can't give up!" Pitt insisted, driven by pride.
"Exactly," the VP agreed. "Even if we don't beat The Joker, we can grab its spillover. That's not chump change. Quentin's right—it can't dominate everything. Fans want variety. Add $5 million to the promo budget."
Universal's marketing machine roared to life, pushing Inglourious Basterds across mainstream media and online. But The Joker was a wildfire. No sooner did Universal's news surface than it was buried under an avalanche of The Joker reviews.
The R-rated film dominated the summer, unstoppable.
The New York Times raved: "The Joker lacks explosive action, grand effects, or overt agendas. Martin crafted a provocative, character-driven study… It targets societal ills—mental illness, cold power structures—voicing deep pain and disgust. Martin's direction shines, stripping away comic-book exaggeration to make the Joker a symbol of the downtrodden, his exquisite acting resonating deeply… The color palette is striking: early muted tones oppress, later vibrant hues create a reckless, exaggerated atmosphere, subtly manipulating viewers' psychology… Martin's performance is the film's cornerstone (alongside his direction). His portrayal of a lonely man's heartbreak and despair, and the Joker's eruptive, world-shattering fury, leaves an indelible mark."