Whether preserved as a cultural artifact on archive.org or debated on social media, Joker endures as a dangerous, beautiful, and deeply empathetic portrait of a monster. And the scariest part is that, for two hours, we understand exactly why he laughs.

Phillips famously cited Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976) and The King of Comedy (1982) as influences. Like Travis Bickle, Arthur is a veteran of a war he cannot name—the war of urban decay and systemic indifference. Gotham is drowning in a super-strike: garbage piles on streets, the rich (represented by Thomas Wayne) are oblivious, and mental health services are gutted. Arthur’s social worker coldly informs him that budget cuts will end their sessions, offering him a list of "alternative" resources (i.e., none). This is the true origin story: a man falls through every crack in the safety net until he finds the only platform left—violence.

Joker is not a glorification of violence; it is an indictment of the conditions that make violence feel inevitable to the lost. The film’s final image—Arthur standing on a cop car, smearing blood into a smile, dancing for an ecstatic crowd—is chilling precisely because it feels earned. We watched the system break him, piece by piece. The film’s power lies in its uncomfortable question: In a society that has replaced empathy with cruelty and community with chaos, how many Jokers are we creating right now?