Clowns are responsible for the world's most tragic magic tricks, like making doves pop out of their underpants and squirting unsuspecting folks looking for a nice sniff with sudden sprays of lord knows what -- they make too much of something out of a lot of nothing. Oversized eyebrows and puffed-up lips, alcoholic noses floating over two floppy shoes signifying nothing. Joker's like that -- a sleeve of rainbow handkerchiefs spilling on the floor into a sad little pile that somebody's got to clean up.
I mean who cleans up the handkerchiefs? Who mops up those custard pie apocalypses? Nobody spares a thought for those hidden doves, tucked into terrible places -- I felt their warm paranoia and their frantic need to burst free watching this movie, jostled up beside a bunch of junk I had no use for. A flaccid juggalo in search of some stiff purpose, Todd Phillips' film weaves and wobbles and flails about, empty as a rabbit-less hat, coarse as a fart gag in an enclosed space. It marinates in flatulent claustrophobia, leaving an unaccounted for stink hanging on us all as we shuffle out mindless, in need of a drink, a moist towelette, a good goddamned book.