Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

The next day, Arthur's phone rang. Ecstatic, he learned he'd been invited to The Murray Franklin Show. Could Murray still remember him? Was the mockery a misunderstanding? Hope flickered—he dreamed of being a talk show star, bringing joy. A shattered ray of sunlight seemed to glimmer again.

Determined to uncover the truth, Arthur went to Arkham Asylum, stealing his mother's thirty-year-old medical file. In a hallway, he read it, confirming her delusional disorder and his adoption. Childhood abuse from her boyfriend had caused his neurological damage, triggering his laughing condition. Despair flooded him, yet he laughed uncontrollably.

Returning home through Gotham's pouring rain, Arthur entered Sophie's apartment, sitting on her couch. A shocking moment followed: Sophie emerged, startled to see him, confusedly asking, "Did you come to the wrong place, Arthur?"

He turned, raising a finger-gun to his temple.

A thunderbolt struck Kevin Thomas, James Blen, and sharp-eyed critics across 3,000 North American theaters. Like his mother's delusions about Thomas Wayne, Arthur's tender moments with Sophie—his love, their dates—were figments of his imagination.

"What the fuck!"

"Damn it!"

"This is terrifying!"

"God, why him?"

The audience reeled. The third ray of sunlight extinguished. Worse, was Murray's encouragement on his show, the fatherly embrace, also a delusion? The laughing crowd at Arthur's stand-up—imagined too? The deeper they thought, the colder the chill. Arthur's life of warmth was all an illusion.

Critics marveled at Martin's twisted world. Arthur, laughing uncontrollably on his couch, faced Sophie's cold corpse on the floor. Yes, he'd killed her. With all light snuffed out, only darkness remained in his heart—and the audience's, suppressed to its depths.

At the hospital, Arthur approached his mother's bed, whispering, "I thought my life was a tragedy, but now I realize it's a comedy." Without hesitation, he smothered her with her pillow.

Gasps echoed in theaters, yet most felt no outrage—only a strange satisfaction. From this scene, the film's lighting grew brighter, colors vibrant. Arthur, once a mentally ill outcast, became the Joker—a true emblem of evil, the dark side within everyone.

James Blen scribbled excitedly: "Martin's color palette is mesmerizing! As Arthur fully embraces evil, the visuals brighten. Evil is hope for the Joker; darkness is his light!"

Jack Nicholson, gripping his head, muttered, "Fuck, after Martin's Joker, every prior version will be trash. That damned, mad genius!"

Adam Davis, who once doubted the film, clenched his fists, emotions ignited, ready to destroy the world with Arthur. In another theater, a disguised Brad Pitt sat stunned. A villain can be portrayed like this? Quentin Tarantino felt a chill, sensing a thrilling massacre looming, like Kill Bill's climax.

Onscreen, Arthur donned a deep red suit, rehearsing for The Murray Franklin Show. He mimicked asking the TV audience if they wanted a joke, basking in their cheers. Pulling out his gun, he feigned suicide, earning more applause, like the elites laughing at Chaplin's near-fall in Modern Times. Martin's seamless editing made Arthur seem to interact with the TV crowd, dazzling critics.

Lively music played as Arthur dyed his hair green, dancing in the bathroom. At his vanity, he applied Joker makeup. Then, the doorbell rang—Randall, the chubby coworker, and Gary, the kind dwarf, came to console him over his mother's death.

But Randall had ulterior motives, probing Arthur about the subway murders to align their stories for the police. He mentioned the gun, fishing for a confession. Arthur smiled, catching on, and slipped a knife from his pocket.

Randall's next words sealed his fate: "You're my little brother, you know what I mean?" It enraged Arthur, recalling Randall's betrayal—giving him the gun, snitching to the boss, costing him his job. Now, Randall's fake concern was the last straw.

The audience saw fury on Arthur's face, but his close-up eyes were icy. He stabbed Randall's neck, then his eye. Randall collapsed, blood splattering the white wall as Arthur stabbed repeatedly, vivid and shocking. The audience felt only exhilaration—no disgust.

"Killed him good!" they thought.

Terrified, Gary cowered. Arthur, softening, said, "You're the only one who was ever kind to me, Gary." He kissed Gary's forehead, letting him leave. Even now, the Joker retained a shred of conscience.