‘Joker: Folie à Deux’ Review: Joaquin Phoenix and Lady Gaga in a Sequel That Questions the Myth

More than a movie in the traditional sense, the sequel to Joker feels like a filmed act of self-criticism. It gives the impression that Todd Phillips, the director of the hugely successful original starring Joaquin Phoenix, took a hard look at the way that film was politically interpreted and embraced by a certain ideological crowd—particularly on the far right—and decided to respond to it. The sequel seems intent on demonstrating that this was never quite his intention. Or, at the very least, on complicating the conversation. The problem with Folie à Deux is that, while it’s intriguing as a kind of text—as a reflection on the uneasy relationship between cinematic mythologies and messy everyday reality—it doesn’t always work as a piece of mainstream entertainment.

Despite its unusual blend of prison drama, home-grown musical, and courtroom movie, this is a quiet, restrained, even somewhat cautious film. It constantly circles around a central question: how far can someone really separate themselves from the violence they unleash? As viewers will remember, Arthur Fleck (Phoenix), after committing a string of murders while dressed as the Joker, became a kind of folk hero—a villain embraced by the masses, the physical embodiment of the rage of the aggrieved white man who believes “the system” has wronged him, the incel mocked by women and belittled by his parents. But after several years in a psychiatric prison, Arthur begins asking himself a simple question: does any of that actually make sense?

In Folie à Deux, everything starts to unravel through a brief animated film that quickly recaps the events of the first movie while introducing the sequel’s central conflict. Titled “Me and My Shadow,” the short plays with the idea that the Joker’s shadow constantly merges with and separates from Fleck, as if locked in a perpetual struggle. It’s never entirely clear whether the shadow represents an extreme side of Arthur himself or a more literal psychological split. Put another way, the question raised by the short—and by the film as a whole—is whether Arthur suffers from some kind of dual personality, or whether he always knew exactly what he was doing.

That question becomes central during the murder trial that’s about to begin when the film properly gets underway. For his lawyer, played by Catherine Keener, the most pragmatic strategy is to argue insanity—to present Arthur as someone who wasn’t fully aware of his actions when he committed the crimes. But what’s convenient isn’t always what feels true. Arthur doesn’t particularly like the idea of presenting himself to the world as “crazy,” nor is he entirely sure he wants to serve as the leader of some movement. He would rather take responsibility for what he did—even if that means a much longer prison sentence.

And that’s not the only complication.

The film finds Fleck depressed in prison, guards constantly asking him to “tell a joke,” while he seems incapable of reconnecting with that persona. During his time inside he joins a musical therapy program, where he meets Lee Quinzel—played by Lady Gaga in a reinterpretation of Harley Quinn. Lee is intense, fascinated by Arthur’s violent past—a fan of both the man and the myth. She even claims to have watched “the movie” made about his life multiple times. For Fleck, who barely understands what love even means, the encounter is both a shock and yet another complication—especially when it comes to the legal strategy of claiming insanity.

Phillips moves away from the Martin Scorsese-influenced aesthetic of the first film and instead leans into a genre that, at least on the surface, seems far more gentle and innocent: the musical. Much of the sequel—especially the portions dealing with Arthur and Lee’s relationship—is structured as a kind of grounded musical drama. The songs are performed almost conversationally (both performers can obviously sing far better than the film lets on), and there are only a handful of overt fantasy sequences with the kind of visual spectacle associated with big-budget musicals.

What the film evokes instead is something closer to the television musicals of Dennis Potter, or perhaps a particularly bleak Tom Waits album: hangover-soaked renditions of pop and jazz standards once sung by Frank Sinatra, alongside the occasional more modern cover from artists like Stevie Wonder, Sonny & Cher, the Bee Gees, and The Carpenters.

The sequel revisits the themes of the first film in a way that’s intellectually sharp, but—except for a few striking moments—this “public debate” doesn’t always translate into a compelling narrative. Phillips’ instinct to push against the impulses of the original film makes sense on paper. It can even be read as a kind of provocation aimed at the industry, or as a deliberate act of self-sabotage. The director places himself in the same self-questioning position as Fleck, distancing himself from the emotions his own Joker stirred up.

But once that idea is established, there isn’t all that much left to build a story around. And the romantic-musical storyline—which is easily the liveliest element in the film—never quite manages to break free of those limitations.

As a result, Folie à Deux becomes repetitive and overly solemn. There are powerful, captivating moments, but also passages that feel arbitrary or difficult to justify, especially given the film’s more-than-two-hour runtime. What the movie ultimately offers is a thoughtful reflection on the consequences of what might be seen as the promotion of violence—both in cinema and in society. Yet it runs directly counter to the usual instincts of blockbuster filmmaking, which tend to sublimate those impulses through spectacle and through audience identification with charismatic antiheroes.

The problem with the original Joker was that viewers ended up identifying with a character who crossed the line from antihero into outright villain. And that’s exactly where Phillips slams on the brakes. The film stops and asks whether encouraging that kind of identification makes sense at all.

There are a few brutal, unsettling scenes that land with real force precisely because they’re presented in such a raw, unglamorous way. Folie à Deux has no interest in glamorizing anything. There are no jokes amid explosions, no thrill in joining a revolutionary uprising against the system. Haunted by what he’s done, surrounded by mostly cruel figures inside the prison, unsure how to deal with his own ideas—and entangled in a relationship with a woman who prefers to see him laughing in his painted glory—Fleck no longer knows which direction to go. So he freezes. Hesitant, paralyzed, newly aware of the impact his persona has had and perhaps trying, too late, to distance himself from it.

And the film finds itself in exactly the same position.