Chapter 110 – All the "Jokers"
"Rent those two movies for me, Susan. I want to watch them," said Nicolas Cage, gripping the Joker script tightly as he imagined what it would be like to play Arthur.
The moment he mentally slipped into the character, a shiver ran through his entire body. Arthur was just… perfect. The role embodied everything Cage believed true artistic cinema should represent.
A neurotic, volatile soul trapped in contradiction—this man who starts as a kind, struggling loner and ultimately becomes "The Joker." The depth of Arthur's psychological unraveling was flawless. Cage was captivated.
"This screenwriter is a genius," Cage murmured, eyes closed in reverence.
"Wayne Garfield," Susan chimed in.
"What?"
"I said, the writer is also Wayne Garfield. He writes all his scripts himself, directs them, even produces them. He's a rare kind of talent."
Seeing her client's interest deepening, Susan continued, "This is your chance, Nicolas. This film doesn't just carry the artistic weight you love—it also has a shot at mainstream success. Garfield's films always perform well at the box office."
As Cage gently caressed the script, he recalled the phone call he got a few days ago. His cousin, Sofia Coppola, had told him that "Uncle Francis" had pulled strings to get him a shot at a major project.
Cage hadn't been particularly moved. His criteria for picking roles had always been simple: he had to love the role, and it had to be art. He had always disdained commercial blockbusters.
But now—with Susan's enthusiastic pitch and the script's undeniable weight—his views were shifting.
"I need this role, Susan!" Cage's gaunt face lit up with an eager spark. "Contact Warner Bros. Ask them when the auditions are. I'll be there on time!"
"Got it. No problem." Susan let out a long breath of relief. "Nicolas, once you have a commercial hit, everything will change. Your status in this industry will jump to a whole new level. After that, you get to choose the films—you won't have to chase them anymore."
Whenever she had the chance, Susan made sure to drill this into his head. An actor without commercial success is just an actor. But an actor with commercial success? That's a star. And the difference between the two? Practically unbridgeable.
"Okay, I get it." Cage grabbed the script and headed upstairs, eager to start preparing. He wasn't in the mood to hear Susan's lecture—again—especially not when it clashed with his ideals.
"I'm going to prepare for the audition. If that director has any taste, he'll give me the role," Cage said, waving the script and vanishing into his upstairs study. "And don't forget to rent those tapes!"
Susan watched him disappear with a sigh, then got ready to head out herself and start making calls to Warner Bros. With someone like Francis Ford Coppola backing the favor, she was confident that as long as Cage didn't completely bomb the audition, he had a strong chance at landing the part.
She had no doubts about her client's acting chops—what worried her was his temperament. Would he sabotage himself by trying too hard to be "unique"? All she could do now was pray that Nicolas Cage would not try to be eccentric at the worst possible moment.
As for his personal life? Susan couldn't care less. Which actor in Hollywood didn't dabble in weed or something harder? Her client wasn't special in that regard.
In her view, the world of indie artists had always been intertwined with women, drugs, and excess—and mainstream Hollywood wasn't much better. It was just a competition of who could be less awful.
But Cage wasn't the only one eyeing the role of Joker.
Another invitation had gone out—to a legend.
Jack Nicholson, the iconic Joker from Warner Bros.' earlier Batman films, was equally thrilled to receive a call for a screen test. In his mind, there was no better fit for the role of the Clown Prince of Crime than him.
In the 1989 Batman film, Jack Nicholson's portrayal of the Joker was met with widespread acclaim. His illogical, chaotic performance style fit the character of Arthur—the Joker—like a glove.
Nicholson's version of the Joker thrived on madness and unpredictability. His only guiding principle? "Fun."
Wasting no time, he called his agent and had them respond to Warner Bros.' invitation. He'd be showing up on time for the lead role audition.
Meanwhile, no matter what the media was saying, or how much buzz the Joker auditions were stirring up, Wayne completely tuned out the noise. His full focus was on work.
After stretching his back to ease the fatigue of sitting for hours, Wayne looked over the newly finished storyboard sketch in front of him. This was his edge—camera angles and visual compositions came naturally to him. It was all in his head.
Sure, he could've delegated this to his assistant directors, as many other directors did. But Wayne wasn't one to slack off—if he had the talent, it had to be put to use for the sake of a smoother production.
Not far from him sat his ever-present assistant, Nina. She was never far away when he worked, always ready in case he suddenly needed something done.
On the TV nearby, a movie trailer played softly. Nina had turned the volume down low so as not to disturb her boss, but Sylvester Stallone's signature growl was still faintly audible.
Now this was the kind of film Nina—an everyday moviegoer—loved: explosive action, starring a musclebound icon. It was exactly the kind of film that pulled in mass audiences like her.
"Cliffhanger?" Wayne asked, hearing the familiar voice. Nina turned to see him staring at the TV.
"Turn it up," he said. Though he only caught the last fifteen seconds of the trailer, he instantly recognized the stoic face of the action star. "Huh... so we've got a collision."
That's right—Stallone's new film Cliffhanger was also scheduled for release in mid-May 1993. It was right there in bold letters at the end of the trailer.
Ironically, this was probably the only Stallone movie that audiences didn't mock. Wayne hadn't expected it, but their film Joker would be going head-to-head with this action juggernaut.
"Boss, since they've already started their marketing push, should we ask Warner Bros. to begin our own TV promotion too?" Nina quickly flipped loyalties. Once she realized Stallone's film would compete with theirs, her admiration turned to concern.
"No need," Wayne replied. "They're starting early because their film finished shooting a while ago. We just need to stick to our own schedule."
Warner Bros. had given Joker a fixed marketing budget. If they started spending it too early, it wouldn't last. Hollywood already had a well-established promotional rhythm: tease during production, then hit hard right before release.
Cliffhanger was an outlier. Since it had wrapped early, its marketing was naturally getting a head start.
Staring at the TV, Wayne began thinking seriously. So this was their main competitor next summer.
He couldn't quite remember how Cliffhanger performed at the box office, but one thing stood out—online chatter often called it Stallone's only film that didn't get flamed by fans.
"Wait a second!" Wayne suddenly slapped the sofa armrest. "Call John—I've got something to run by him."
Though Nina was used to his bursts of energy while working, she still found his suddenness a bit much. She calmly took out her notepad and dialed John's number.
"Boss, he's on."
Wayne took the phone, made sure John could hear him, and got straight to the point.
"Do you think it's possible for Warner Bros. to increase our marketing budget a little? I've got an idea that could get over thirty million people to see our trailer—fast."
"Wayne," John's voice was calm, even firm. "Marketing isn't our department. Our job is to make a damn good movie."
He knew the line they couldn't cross. Neither he nor Wayne were high enough in the studio hierarchy to mess with Warner's marketing strategies—offering suggestions was already risky. Warner Bros. was one of the most established distribution companies in the world. Meddling could easily step on toes in the promotions division.
Production and marketing—two vital departments in the studio—had never had a particularly smooth relationship.
"Listen, John," Wayne said, trying to explain his plan clearly, "Just see if you can talk to someone at the studio. Try to get our teaser trailer aired during the Super Bowl halftime."
"…The Super Bowl?" John paused, instantly grasping the scale of the idea. The Super Bowl was the most-watched program in North America. Every year, it drew over 30 million viewers.