I had this ‘compulsive’ demanding of my own daggered soul, or perhaps then on the other forgotten side, an ancient spiritual little voice that kept urging me, (make a bold note fixed-tabled doctor…) that I needed to, need to, see the movie, The Joker. With the ‘bloody’ Joaquin Phoenix in the centre of it all…

So on a sensitized afternoon, in retrospect, a very sad one, I waited for the skin-stripping of the superfluous ego, to honour the whisperings of demi-gods of long ago. Some of them even protesting existence up into a soulless 21st century. But all, sadly, dumped into immaterial graveyards that we now merely call points of irrelevant reference, that keep warning me, and some unexpected dogs howling at full moon and some other human beings clothed as hobos, bergies, losers, to sadly watch out for the trimmings and pompous ways of middleclass sureties. And the higher classes, for centuries now, just being busy with ongoing glib and glee.

A lost case, they, these forgotten unclothed messengers of our longed for gods, breathed their sad anguish, on an awaited afternoon as I walked into a movie theatre to sit down to the movie, Joker. I guess some people, some frivolous souls, would call it entertainment. I took note of some huge holders of pop-corn that some daring people postulated to the thrill of their afternoon. 

Yes, if you are inclined to superficial standards and iron-casted ways of soulless conduct, you would find ways to discredit it all. I watched with aching hand palms, but it could have been more the despairing throbbing soul, and then afterwards I read some reviews and my heart cringed for commentators not having any open heart to relate to an unconditioned experience that simplicity will never understand. But I do know, I have passed Grade Six, mediocrity proudly walks the middle of all easy acceptable roads. 

One commentator remarked on, as she saw it, a ‘theatrical performance’ that Joaquin Phoenix portrayed. The Joker bathed in extreme Surrealist fashion, little sister. Good Evening Salvodar Dali. I met you in Venice, but you, apart from your haunting paintings, were already very dead for a long time. But some of your kind never really dies.

It could not be different. We are not talking balanced, programmed middleclass standards and rhetoric here. We are skinned with the immense reality of life in the unprincipled, undisciplined Id (Freud), other (nauseously) accepted forms of life or the many ways of gradual Thanatos(death), eroding our strived for roads longing a soul, longing a way to settle in humanity or at least find a way to spell it with some eloquence.

We, in the Joker, have a human being in extreme psychological, existential pain, harrowed with many ways of flicked-on psychological blades from childhood and ever on. And then, brought up with infested scars, the accompanying cutting of psychological blades lusting the final evaporation of a very troubled soul, the road was set for painful disaster.

Some will just call it criminality. Some others will call it the angered protest of the unholy that could be in the end our only honest absurd form of protesting superficial simplicity bathed in ongoing apathetic cruelty. 

The Joker. Cutting pain, crying, laughing, the tsunami of ever more forms of pain. In order to absurdly and irrationally, and disastrously, but somehow honourably, cry in unbearable pain for life to be more, please you gods, to be more than mere sickening stupidity and endless superficiality. How to trump this beyond a joker card?

But, the glib guys and dolls, carrying the middle ground, just found him to be a spectacle to use and dot down with base erotic profundity. The Joker, with a slivered soul, protested profoundly, absurdly, to be just a base crowd pleaser. To be just an absurd chuckling clown. So he clothed his body and his soul as a spectacle, like a Greek Tragedy (I cry my handclapping to the trimmings of this localized tragedy giving birth to lasting endless forms of tragedy) and in the end he, the Joker, he portrayed himself as one longing for more, for much more, than the many ongoing ways of accustomed and allowed human cruelty.

Damn you Joker. I will surely kill you if we meet. You or me. With a knife, a gun, a stone, a head butt, whatever you may like to ease your pain. But just don’t look me into the decay of a battered eye. But, luckily, I guess, life will timely exterminate you. You, like a very dark side, a very sad, id-like Jeshua type. Another one to just clear-mindedly crucify and forget. For ever and thereafter. And then the frivolous games can just begin again. Before they begin again.


Good night Joker. You, you very sad human being breaking my heart, my sad sight. A sad ending in more than one way.

Wim van der Walt – Bellville