- In approaching this review, I tried to think of a more influential film from the past 30 years than Tim Burton's Batman, and I honestly couldn't come up with one. The closest candidates were The Silence of the Lambs, Pulp Fiction, The Matrix, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, all of which inspired plenty of subsequent film and TV projects, but none of which pervaded American filmmaking in as enduring a way as Batman. Today, the shadow cast by Burton's film manifests itself in the literal shadows of "dark and gritty" action films and animated series that aren't just for children anymore. Before this film, Batman danced the "batuzi" and wielded shark repellent bat spray. After this film, he's a troubled loner in black body armor striving to avenge his parents' deaths. It's impossible to imagine the current spate of superhero summer blockbusters and seemingly limitless Netflix series existing without Batman paving the way.
- That said, Tim Burton's film is a much more goofy and entertaining affair than most of its modern anticedants. Sure, the relentlessly dour Batman (Michael Keaton) dangles crooks off of rooftops and leaves flowers for his dead parents, and yes, there's some dimly-lit violence and a disfigurement or two. However, this version of the Joker (Jack Nicholson) isn't above vandalizing an art museum with bright splashes of paint, throwing a street parade overflowing with colorful balloons, or blasting the music of late 80's Prince. Although Nicholson's scenery-chewing theatrics, hammy misquotes, and bright purple suit may seem today to be relics of a more innocent past, they are also a welcome reminder that, as a famous playwright once put it, "one may smile, and smile, and be a villain." As memorable as the late Heath Ledger's performance in The Dark Knight may have been, there's definitely something to be said for letting a clown be a clown.
- The story is also refreshingly simple: Batman drops Jack Napier in acid, Napier becomes the Joker, and the two of them fight. There are no end-of-the world stakes here, and the whole affair fits neatly into a two-hour package. The film's other characters, easily pigeonholed as the love interest (Kim Basinger), the comedy relief (Robert Wuhl), police both honest (Pat Hingle) and corrupt (William Hootkins), gangsters (Jack Palance, Tracey Walter) and the women who love them (Jerry Hall), and politicians (Billy Dee Williams, Lee Wallace), exist largely to be overshadowed by Batman and the Joker, although the redoubtable Alfred (Michael Gough) lands a few lines that convey plenty of genuine heart. Everybody else, including the audience, is there just to watch the fireworks when the two main characters duke it out.
- So how did a movie about two weird grownups in Halloween costumes achieve such an oversized influence during the past few decades? From a commercial perspective, I'm sure the answer has to do with the film's enormous profit (it was the 5th highest-grossing film at the time) and effective marketing tie-ins (Diet Coke! Taco Bell!). Suddenly there was a way to make a lot more than a dollar per issue off of comic books. From a critical perspective, part of the film's staying power surely stems from its outstanding set design, in which Gotham City is a steam-shrouded wasteland where muggers lurk around every corner and rotting cathedrals and decrepit movie theaters serve as a gravestones for a once-great metropolis. Equally memorable is Danny Elfman's masterful soundtrack that effortlessly switches between brooding, playfulness, and drama without ever stopping to catch its breath. The result is not a perfect movie, but one that seems to improve with every subsequent imitation by less talented and imaginative filmmakers.
