Chapter 111 – The Gaunt Genius of Performance
On the other end of the phone, the momentary silence told Wayne that the producer was seriously considering the feasibility of his suggestion. So he waited patiently for a reply.
"Wayne," John finally spoke, "I'll try talking to Warner Bros.' marketing department. But the final decision will probably fall to Kevin. Just wait for my update."
"No problem. Let me know once there's any news. If the trailer does make it into the Super Bowl halftime ad slot, I'll adjust the shooting schedule accordingly."
After hanging up, Wayne returned to his desk, glancing over the storyboard drafts while pondering Warner Bros.' planned marketing budget.
Joker had a production budget of $60 million. Depending on the film's performance, the studio would invest another $15–20 million for marketing—a sizable figure, signaling the company's trust in him as a director.
But asking for more, especially on short notice, was risky. Warner Bros. wasn't exactly flush with cash.
Of course, marketing costs in this era weren't what they'd become in the 21st century. Only after the turn of the millennium would Hollywood start pouring absurdly large sums into promotion—sometimes exceeding the actual production cost.
Still, even in the '90s, major studio blockbusters were already allocating around 30% of the production budget to marketing, and that percentage would only grow over time.
By the 2000s, marketing expenses for some tentpole productions would cross the $100 million threshold.
Back in the present, while every Hollywood distributor understood the importance of promotion, the industry hadn't yet become as ruthlessly commercialized as it would later.
Movies also had longer theatrical runs in this era. It wasn't common to pull in two-thirds of your entire audience in the first week of release.
Still, it was obvious to anyone with a brain: to sell tickets, aggressive marketing was essential. And if there was a chance to get a trailer in front of tens of millions of viewers across North America, Wayne was confident Warner Bros. would bite.
So far, no film had tried such a bold move. Super Bowl ad space was usually reserved for luxury products and perfumes. Using it to advertise a movie? That would be extravagant.
After all, every second of airtime during the Super Bowl cost upwards of $100,000.
But Wayne believed this could be a breakthrough. The first person to eat the crab always reaps the most reward. If the studio saw it as a profitable gamble, they just might increase the marketing budget.
Time passed as production work accelerated. Good news came in from both Zack Snyder and John: they had finalized agreements with the New York City government, securing filming permits and logistics support.
Industrial Light & Magic (ILM) had also submitted their official quote. Since the CGI and prop-heavy scenes were limited, their price was well within budget. Wayne quickly locked in a deal with them.
ILM's crew had already begun building props. With the current timeline, everything would be ready by the time filming started.
The main cast had already gone through one round of auditions. Just as Wayne was about to begin the second round, a long-awaited update arrived from Warner Bros.
The studio had agreed to provisionally increase the film's marketing budget and had secured a 30-second Super Bowl halftime commercial slot for the trailer.
By now, it was already September. Given that Wayne was working with a relatively new team, the pressure was on. If he wanted the trailer ready for the Super Bowl in January, the shoot needed to wrap before year's end.
There was little room for error. Any unexpected setbacks could throw the entire schedule off. Film production was a complex beast—one wrong move, and everything could get delayed indefinitely.
---
"Why is he here?"
Inside a soundstage at Warner Bros. Studios, the second round of auditions for the lead role was just about to begin. But to everyone's surprise, the first person to enter the audition room wasn't the director or producer—it was Jonathan Keller, head of DC Comics.
Casting director Schwartz, adjusting the camera, was visibly confused. He certainly hadn't invited the man.
But Jonathan quietly walked to a corner and took a seat. Schwartz shrugged and let it go.
Moments later, the producer and director entered. They, too, were surprised to see Keller, but simply nodded politely and took their seats behind the audition table.
"Schwartz, let's get started," John said, glancing at his watch. "We're on a tight schedule. If possible, let's find our lead today and skip the third round."
"No problem," Schwartz replied, heading to the door and opening it.
The first actor to walk in was Nicolas Cage. His face, made up with heavy pale makeup, looked almost sickly. Gaunt and intense, he had clearly put in significant effort to embody the Joker.
Wayne studied him carefully. That face—the posture, the aura—Cage had done his homework. He was actively molding himself into the character.
Schwartz glanced at the three seated figures, and when none of them spoke, he stepped forward to lead. "Hello, Mr. Cage."
"Hello." Cage's response was curt. His look—specially styled—already bore a striking resemblance to the Joker.
"This will be a monologue, Mr. Cage," Wayne said, cutting straight to the point before Schwartz could even finish the intro. "What do you think is the core of the Joker?"
Cage looked at him for a moment before replying thoughtfully:
"This isn't just a cartoon villain. His uncontrollable laughter, his soul-crushing sadness—they send shivers down your spine. The pain he feels is so suffocating that it naturally morphs into destruction.
I think anyone, pushed far enough, could reach that kind of madness. That's where I found my connection to the Joker."
When he finished, Cage studied Wayne's expression, hoping for a sign of approval. But Wayne gave nothing away—his face remained unreadable.
"It's clear you've prepared extensively," Wayne finally said. He picked up a page from the table and handed it over. "This is a scene where Arthur is changing clothes in the company locker room. I want you to perform it."
This particular scene had been chosen with great care—it was extremely difficult to perform. The actor couldn't rely on facial expressions; most of what the audience would see was his back. And yet, it had to convey Arthur's overwhelming loneliness.
Nicolas Cage looked down at the script in his hand and exhaled in quiet relief—he had practiced this scene at home.
He began by removing his outer shirt, then the undershirt beneath it. The sight of his body drew a hushed gasp from those in the room. Emaciated, every bone and rib protruded—then, slowly, with his back to the panel, he sank to the ground and folded his arms tightly behind him.
In that moment, with his twisted posture and gaunt, trembling frame, he exuded an air of unbearable isolation. No background music was needed. The raw emotion in the room was palpable.
A few minutes passed. Cage silently drew his arms back in, then methodically began untying his shoelaces. One by one, he fumbled to thread them back in, clumsy and deliberate.
"Okay. That's enough."
At Wayne's voice, Cage remained seated for a moment, as if still shedding the skin of the Joker. Then he slowly emerged from Arthur's fragile, fractured psyche and returned to himself.
Everyone in the room could feel it—this man was a madman. To starve himself to a skeletal state for a possible role? That took either brilliance or insanity.
"What made you decide to lose the weight?" Wayne finally spoke, the admiration in his eyes undeniable. He now regarded Cage not as an actor—but as a living, breathing work of art.
His performance had been wordless yet powerful—emotionally resonant in a way that stirred something deep and uncomfortable. And that skeletal form? It only amplified the connection.
"I simply analyzed Arthur's mental state," Cage replied. "Imagined what his body and spirit would be like after enduring such a suffocating, hopeless life. Then I adjusted myself to become Arthur."
His answer won over the room even further. Even Wayne, usually stoic, was silently impressed. Art house actors, he thought, they really are obsessive. But that obsession, when channeled correctly, was an incredible gift to the craft.
"I have to say, your performance was excellent. I could feel the emotional weight behind every move. And the prep work you've done—it elevates the entire portrayal."
"Thank you, Director Garfield." Nicolas Cage finally let a sliver of pride slip through, lifting his chin ever so slightly—as if the praise wasn't surprising, but expected. As if it belonged to him by right.
He was a quiet, withdrawn, but immensely proud young man—overflowing with confidence in his own acting talent. And it wasn't baseless. He truly could carry this role.
Wayne's satisfaction only deepened. He didn't care what Cage was like off-screen. The sheer impact of that audition—it was more than enough.
"Your performance was outstanding. That's all for now. We'll inform your agent of the results within three days."
"Understood. Thank you." Cage gave a slight bow, gathered his clothes, slipped them on, and walked out the door.
After he left, John glanced down at the resume and sighed. "That man's either a genius—or a lunatic."
"Absolutely," Wayne nodded. "Frankly, I don't think we need any more auditions. John, he's perfect for the part."
The others in the room echoed the sentiment with silent nods. Whether it was raw talent or obsessive preparation, one thing was clear—Nicolas Cage was the Joker.
"Well, let's keep going."
The door opened again. Another young man walked in, clearly gunning for the role of Arthur Fleck.
"Hello! Please start by introducing yourself," Schwartz gestured toward the judges' table.
The young man gave a small smile.
"My name is Brandon Lee…"