The Dark Knight (2008)
“Dark” is the operative. A ferocious, unstoppable leviathan of a movie. Its single cello string like a coiled spring—so tautly wound that it whines and quakes. Christopher Nolan knows precisely the vital images to carve, and the zinger lines that needed to pop—from the Joker gang’s brutal, Heat-inspired opening heist, to the bazooka-wielding jester’s explosive subterranean antics, and the kind of heart-stopping, chaotic car chases that both mimic, and ultimately eviscerate Friedkin’s French Connection, you’ll grimace and wince, then cheer and applaud.
Reinventing the Batman’s most-famed archnemesis as a Lynchian, wild man Tom Waits resulted in posthumous Oscar perfection with the late, great Heath Ledger’s giggly, guttural, cross-dressing Joker emerging as the epitome of cinematic comic book villainy, and the cloudy-minded poster boy for the criminally insane. In spite of its superiority, Ledger’s world-burner doesn’t quite nail the unruly rally cry irresponsibility of Joaquin Phoenix’s later portrayal, but edges close—palpably urging us all to introduce a little anarchy, and disturbingly makes a dangerous amount of sense whilst doing it—with the same brand of twisted conviction, and simplistic solve-all snake oil salesman logic that serves inflammatory world leaders. At a glance, this picture (war) paints Joker as a loony, but under a little surface scratch scrutiny, he’s so clear in his chaotic, criminal convictions that he eventually owns the role—in spite of Joaquin and Jack’s best efforts, exhibiting the kind of cocksure arrogance America laps up from its straight-talking politicians. Like other corrupt officials, Joker at least has an answer for the lost boys of America. Political allegory aside—and although tragically premature, I reckon Heath would’ve probably enjoyed bowing out on this menacing note. Although The Dark Knight Rises would have undoubtedly played differently with the Joker breaking out of Arkham Asylum, and returning for more malicious mischief, Nolan somehow unknowingly depicted both the pitch-perfect, macabre exit of the Clown Prince of Crime, and the unfortunate, final curtain call of the admirable actor playing him—with the Joker spinning and twirling; upended madly, and then through Pfister’s rotated lens, now seemingly the right way up, eeking out a closing, uncomfortably insane squawk, before colliding with us; the audience.
Bale wears Bruce Wayne’s suave smirk as comfortably as the silent guardian’s cowl, and British institution, Michael Caine’s Alfred is a consistent joy—it’s a pleasure to watch, and spend time in his dignified company. Gary Oldman isn’t exactly as I’d pictured Gordon, but it’s nevertheless a fine portrayal of the character, and serves as yet another father figure for Bruce’s collection. Freeman and Gyllenhaal support the film’s weighty, yet far-fetched high concept with restrained, grounding performances, and Eckhart elevates and colours the entire picture—stomping his thematic “dent” into the overarching tale of the trilogy as “Two-Face.”
Minor caveats such as the spoiled continuity of Katie Holmes’ Rachel Dawes depiction robs the trilogy of a neat arc, and Batman Begins‘ through line character as we simply can’t just start again and warm to Gyllenhaal right off the bat. It’s one of the trilogy’s most regrettable cock-ups, but I suppose it was unavoidable—though Maggie is undoubtedly the better performer. The gruff, gravelly voice of Bale’s Batman is an acquired taste, and Nicky Katt’s rubbish comic relief commentary improv aside, the movie remains predominantly both humorous and disturbing. I always wondered if there was perhaps a way to excise the section with the two ferries. By the time it arrives, it feels like one set piece too many for a two and a half hour film that could’ve been just a smidge tighter. Having said that, the ferry sequence may be a bridge too far, but it’s arguably necessary to unearth and articulate the plot machinations of the battle for Gotham’s “white knight,” Harvey’s corrupted soul.
The Dark Knight showcases the level of seamlessly-integrated practical stunts and CGI audiences can often only dream of. Here, it thrillingly comes true, with the plummeting Batman crushing the roof of a van, circling the Hong Kong cityscape in elegant flight, flipping the Joker’s truck silently into the air, and the militarily-grounded “Tumbler” Batmobile and its handy interior ejector pod. Add to all this a booming, pulsing Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard shared score that drones and beats in syncopation—a rhythm and rhyme. This pulsating heart of the movie ensures it kicks off with a bang and does not stop until we’re plunged into a quick cut darkness at the film’s watchful protector climax—daisy-chaining every scene together smoothly without ever sacrificing pace, and if it ever did run the risk of losing momentum, the deafening thuds startle and jolt us back to life—each thick, thump to the body reverberates and is felt.
No one will ever get this close again—not even Matt Reeves’ acclaimed 2022 incarnation, with bat-fatigue dulling its Seattley, emo-goth impact. The Dark Knight is anarchic, adult cinema, walking a tightrope; teetering on the precipice of overblown ridiculousness without ever stumbling into the winking, glossy Marvel mire; rattling the tracks of its own implausibility, but miraculously never toppling the train. If Michael Mann read comics, this is what we’d get. In spite of the tale-ending muscularity and might of The Dark Knight Rises, this is Nolan’s caped crusader mic drop; the superhero film to end all superhero films—a total triumph, and worthy of every ounce of praise and credit it has garnered.
Scarious Artists 