Cinema (by P.Buttafuoco). Joker the Titan (without revolution) between dance and death

It ends with a scene from "today the comedies", Joker.

That clown – Charlot pursued by the nurse in the asylum – is Prometheus.

It brings revenge as a dowry to the last of Gotham City, consummates the rite of destruction / regeneration and becomes the sovereign of itself.

It tears the privilege of satiety to the elite.

Joker is nothing but the joker of poker cards: the one who smiles with the blood of broken gums and is the crazy variable that sets the city on fire to deliver to men the fire of populism.

It's a pop product, Joker.

All that death spreads like a fashion. It is a concept unconsciously derived from the Leopardi of Operette Morali, and "The Dialogue of Death and Fashion" is in fact every scene change. A burst of violence that Joker knows how to find himself between his fingers: in a bag with a gun inside, or a pair of scissors to cut a jugular. And the film by Todd Phillips touches, in fact, the lively vein of the desperation of women and men like Aeschylus dictating the clapperboard and not the pencil that will make Batman's deeds.

Charles Allan Gilbert – All Is Vanity (1892)

No one will ever be able to give the mark of public enemy Number One to the murdering clown. Beniamino who is commuters, the unemployed and the poor losers like so many, Joker, for every "asshole" to which he pulls the bucket, adds up the total of a rage that has been repressed for too long. It makes it foam of a garish lavacro of its shootings, a sabba rich of colors and prodigal of joy for a collective game – kill the rich one! – where the lever that raises the city is not the class struggle, but the wheel of the cosmos, the eternal pouring of resentment into pain without escape.

Joker – an outcast among many, a failed comedian – is the Titan of showdown.

It is not tied to the Tartar rock, Joker, rather it is lying on the dented bonnet of the police car from which it emerges to regrow – escaping from arrest – not the liver, but the mask on which, with two fingerprints of blood, in fact, renews and redeems life.

Yes, it is the populist in the age of modernity that the boy who assists his sick mother.

She calls it "Happy" because it has to bring a smile and a good mood to the world.

Instead, he finds comfort in the hallucinations to which he begs the illusion of love and the revelation of his talent in a very successful television show.

Divinity of the absolute public like no one, Joker does not resemble his last-minute caricatures, least of all to political extras in search of post-ideological archetypes because if what is seen in the film is true – the excruciating digging in those flesh sprinkle with mascara, eye shadow and lipsticks – the only absolute evil capable of descending into the underworld to carry out the kali-yuga expected from every single existence forced to live in distress is the hero, not the "mayor" or "citizen" what to say.

Joker unpredictable hero of a sub-proletariat for whom no revolution has ever been planned; Joker prototype of the man who must resign himself to not having the talent necessary to realize his dream; Joker example of a social membership so uncomfortable as to predict the inevitable descending parabola; Joker the psychopath in care of social services, dependent on the drugs that must be prescribed every week and without which he is only a victim of public spending cuts is the Prometheus of a Tartar orbo of light.

The first time that Joker, played by Joaquin Phoenix, kills three gentlemen he runs home and there, in a room painted with anguish, gazing at himself – thin, crooked, intoxicated with cigarettes and medicines – he turns on himself.

The three he shot threw french fries at a scared girl sitting in front of them in the metro. They threw crumbs like peanuts at the zoo. Joker attends the scene and fate obliges him to the double step of fashion and death: it is revealed in the dance of Shiva.

In the white lead on which the Joker draws the eyes and the smile of the clown lets a tear fall: that same child tied to a radiator, abused by his mother's companion and marked forever by this terrible childhood where his crying was stolen, to have – as a stigma – the smile. Two fingerprints of blood. (from the Daily Fact)

@barbadilloit

Of Pietrangelo Buttafuoco