Ronald Wall

After witnessing the brilliance of the first Joker, I figured the sequel was bound to fall short. But wow, I wasn’t prepared for just how far. Somehow, it managed to be worse than Waterworld—and that's saying something, considering that’s my gold standard for cinematic disasters. Sure, Joaquin Phoenix delivered a stunning performance, but it was as if they threw a child prodigy into a line-dancing competition and just said, “Go nuts.” The plot? A masterclass in boredom, occasionally sprinkled with Gaga, as if that would magically fix things. The music choices were a delightful mix of pompous and pretentious, really helping to underscore the film’s commitment to creating an auditory chamber of disappointment. And let’s not forget the crowning achievement: the CGI monstrosity that was Mr. Puddles, the cherry on top of this cringe sundae. All the while, I clung to the hope that my hero, the Joker, would cut through the layers of musical nonsense. Instead, I watched him toss aside everything that made him great, only to be stood up by a less-than-stunning love interest and then, in a truly poetic twist, killed by the janitor. By the end, I wasn’t just let down—I was duped. Turns out, I didn’t see the Joker at all. No, the real joke was on me... and the rest of the audience.

James Bond in a haydron collidor