Friday, July 18, 2008
Heath Ledger, o Coringa no novo filme de Batman "The Dark Knight".
Heath Ledger is the only living thing in a dead movie. Could he have died for giving too much live to the Joker?
The audience cheers everytime he kills someone and he kills a lot. The Joker gives life to our killer instincts. It's safe to kill in a movie theatre. His insanity is our insanity. We don't have to act out on our insanity, he does it for us. He's a clown who takes himself very seriously. He doesn't take anyone else seriously. He knows better. He's willing to go beyond any pretense of righteousness. Everyone is a Two Face. Batman is a closeted drag queen. Only the Joker has the courage to make no compromise. He plays for all or nothing.
Heath Ledger is constantly licking the Joker's scars, his deranged slashed smiling mouth. He's an addict. His demands are inhexaustible. He wants more and more and more. This world is too small for his mouth and his tongue. He can't have enough.
We're all addicts. We go the movies at midnight to watch a dead movie. We cheer for death. We want more. We leave with dry tongues wriggling, dangling from our wrung out mouths. We overdose on killing. Never enough.
There's beauty in an artist's total surrender to his act. Heath kills himself to give life to the Joker, to our darkest dreams. He dies so we can live and suffer, safely, the awfulness of our addiction.
The Joker is no one, he has killed the self. He's only instinct, impulse. He's random. He has no purpose. He revels in chaos. His life is a joke. A cruel joke.
We go out into the night of Gotham sad for Heath and his Joker. Such waste. We ask God for serenity and courage and wisdom. We want to live. No more jokes. No more death.