Batman (1989)
A theatrical screening. Hoo, boy, this one hasn’t aged well. Having seen it many times as a child, much of this movie is committed to my memory. Even so, I was stunned at times by how often it glosses over basic issues of logic.
Why, for example, would a presumably intelligent man like Bruce Wayne jeopardize his activities or even waste his time on an overgrown child like Vicki Vale? She has to be one of the least-interesting and less-intelligent women in the city, and her primary mode of expression is a mixture of whimpering and staring blankly. Their romantic scenes together resemble children playacting.
Bruce Wayne is probably the only billionaire who lives in Gotham. He is important enough that they reserve a seat for him at official police press conferences, and they notice when he’s gone. So why, then, would anybody not recognize him by face, and why would anyone have to dig into the newsroom’s oddly slim morgue file to find out the most important basic facts of his life?
Why, even, is he so hellbent on saving Gotham? The film rarely wastes its time on the apparently unimportant daily lives of Gothamites, unless they’re getting mugged. When it does bother to show them, they’re scrambling over each other through gutters littered with dollar bills, clinging to their unearned cash while being gassed to death in a stupidly obvious ploy by the Joker. I can’t fathom Batman’s opinion of the citizens, because the film apparently finds them despicable. Heath Ledger’s Joker would love it here.
Why have an armored car armed with machine guns and bombs in a town primarily beset by wallet snatchers and petty gangsters? Why have a jet that’s apparently constructed from dynamite and can be shot down with one well-placed gunshot? Why do the police think that the perfect place for a shootout is a rickety chemical plant filled with poisonous fumes? Why does Jack Palance constantly look and sound as if he’s about to vomit?
The film is at its best in the precious few moments when it abandons the fragile illusion of coherence. In these moments, it attains something closer to dream logic. Images and music are combined in ways that don’t necessarily make rational sense, but awaken a sort of primitive unease, a sense of tension that emanates directly from the lizard portion of our brains. When the Batman is holding Jack over the railing with the bubbling toxic gunk far below in the background of the shot, the situation is fairly simple, but the mood is odd. You can’t read Batman’s face. Is he hoisting Jack or is he dangling him? He’s a nightmare apparition, betraying not a hint of emotion or personality. The music, the angles, and Jack’s contorted expression of pain and terror tell us that he’s an unknowable force with the power of life or death. Later, circus music plays as the Joker waltzes with Vicki, while the badly wounded Batman tangles with faceless thugs in the extreme foreground. The cathedral bell tower setting is reduced to expressionistic flashes of shadows and shapes. Again, nightmare imagery.
In these moments, the movie works, but they can’t tell a complete story on their own. Cue the childish and hole-ridden narrative, which glues those moments together and ultimately sinks this movie. Taken as a whole, it is ultimately about the game of childish one-upmanship between Batman and the Joker, with the Joker being constantly frustrated by the apparent ease of his playmate’s better success. Gotham is the playground and the hapless idiot citizens are the toys.