Joker: Are Trigger Warnings Necessary, and Will It Really Provoke Violence?

So, according to Twitter and several news articles, audiences are walking out of Joker because they’re horrified—or rather, emotionally triggered—by its content.

Now, I can’t help but wonder why that is, when films like Reservoir Dogs, Jacob’s Ladder, Taxi Driver, Misery, and the infamous adaptation of Stephen King’s The Shining—all of which feature violent, emotionally unbalanced characters—have long been credited as some of the most iconic in cinematic history; films most would say everyone should watch at least once in their lifetime.

Maybe you could argue that because I wasn’t even born when most of those titles came out, I really couldn’t—and shouldn’t—comment on how they were initially received, which would be fair enough. That said, I do like to think of myself as quite the film buff, particularly when it comes to the dark and obscure. And as far as I’m aware, none of those previously mentioned films incited quite the same response that Joker has.

Which leads me to question: what’s changed? Would cinema-goers in the ’80s have called for trigger warnings?

I’m not so sure.

What I do know is this: we’ve become much more aware of how the human mind works in the last forty years. Many of us have seen—or experienced firsthand—how easy it is to slip into depression, or become overwhelmed with anxiety and insecurity. The damage that certain situations, stressors, and memories can have on our mental health isn’t something to be mocked.

Yet I really do feel people are becoming too reactive—and all too quick to call for censorship—when it comes to very specific types of fictional works: namely, those depicting characters from difficult backgrounds with mental health issues.

Yes, this past decade has seen a rise—not just in gun crime, but in all forms of crime. But I’ll stick with gun violence here, since that’s the relevant issue. Still, all this scaremongering around Joker—this speculation that it might provoke or encourage violence—just seems ridiculous to me.

Let’s use the Bond films as an example. Actually, you could use practically any action movie from the past thirty years and make the same point, but Bond is handy shorthand.

Bond is a government agent. We all know that. But essentially, he’s an assassin. Sure, he gathers intelligence, but invariably his job entails killing a lot of people—usually with style and a one-liner. Yet we all consider Bond a protagonist. Why? Because that’s the perspective we’re fed.

It’s perfectly acceptable to rate Bond films certificate 12 and allow pre-teens to absorb the message that you’re justified in growing up and killing people—so long as it’s for Queen and Country. That’s the key. As long as the violence is framed with nationalistic gloss, a tuxedo, and a government paycheck, it’s heroic.

Of course, the only issue with that is when someone from another country does exactly the same thing, feels equally vindicated, and believes they’re the hero. But never mind all that—our guy’s the one the camera’s following, so we root for him.

Bugger whether Bond himself—before we even get to the villains—exhibits signs of mental instability, sociopathy, or narcissistic behaviour. He’s cool. He’s handsome. He’s smooth. He gets all the sexy ladies. He adjusts his cufflinks after jumping into a torn-up train, for fuck’s sake. He’s awesome.

And it’s only fiction. Trigger warnings? Pfft. Are you mad? It’s not real life—it’s just a bit of fun. Everyone knows it’s not real.

And sure, some of the bright boys and girls watching may grow up to become government agents, or police officers, or soldiers. Most won’t, of course. But we support those people. They take life justly.

It's not like there could be a teenager in that audience—angry at their peers after years of bullying, or pissed at their parents, or simply disillusioned with the bleakness of their future—who might begin to fixate on our brilliant, stylish, 00Blond and develop the warped view that power, revenge, and masculinity are earned by taking someone else’s life.

But Joker, on the other hand—oh, now that’s too far. The story of a scrawny, odd-looking, naïve, almost childlike middle-aged man who still lives at home with his sickly mother. A man whose one dream in life has proven unattainable due to his mental limitations. A man who, after a lifetime of poverty, ridicule, rejection, and abuse, eventually snaps and takes his revenge on society?

Yeah, no. That’s not acceptable. Not even for mature, 18+ audiences who’ve read the synopsis and watched the trailers. We're worried they might have a nervous breakdown, or idolise this make-believe clown and go on a rampage.

Please.

What’s the difference between Bond and Joker, besides the painfully obvious? They both use a gun to kill people. So why is one shocking and the other beloved?

Shall I tell you?

Class. Glamour. Presentation. Superficiality.

Arthur Fleck is more real than Bond—at least to most of us. He represents the people society likes to kick down and ignore: the mentally ill, the impoverished, the awkward, the downtrodden, the ones who didn’t “pull themselves up.” And people don’t like that.

The healthy-minded, middle-class majority don’t know how to relate to Arthur, because they’ve spent their whole lives avoiding people like him. Judging them. Mocking them. Fearing them. They see him on screen and feel disturbed—not because he’s dangerous, but because he’s familiar.

Honestly? I think the most provocative thing about this film is that it highlights the direct consequences of human behaviour—and that makes people uncomfortable.

It’s the same reaction you get when showing people footage from the meat, dairy, and egg industries. Instead of feeling pity or remorse, people recoil. They scramble to justify themselves. They get angry. Because truth makes people squirm. Truth holds up a mirror, and some would rather smash the glass than see what’s in it.

I have what most would consider a mental health issue myself: I have bipolar type II. And a lot of the time—much like Arthur—all I have are negative thoughts.

I’m not ashamed to admit it. There are parts of Arthur I relate to. I saw it in the first trailer—Joaquin’s performance said it all. That doesn’t mean I’m going to detach from reality, throw on some face paint, and go on a rampage.

Am I angry at society? You bloody bet I am. Do I resent most people? Absolutely. Am I about to become a murderer because I found myself relating, in part, to a character? No. I am not. And I’m entirely certain that in 99.9% of cases, others feel the same.

Where does this end?

If we begin censoring everything that might prompt one already damaged individual to act on urges they’ve undoubtedly been harbouring long before seeing a film or hearing a song, we might as well stop creating art altogether.

What’s next? Ban rom-coms in case a heartbroken man watches Love Actually and shoots up a Valentine’s Day restaurant?

Art should make people uncomfortable. It should challenge opinions, stretch empathy, and expand understanding.

I believe every one of us has a story to tell. Some are uplifting. Some are grim. Some are harrowing. But all of us should have the right to tell them.

And don’t we all seek characters, visuals, and words we relate to? Isn’t that why we create? To communicate? To make sense of the world? To feel less alone?

As a writer, I know this for sure: if I didn’t have that cathartic release of putting my thoughts on paper, I might have gone mad—or worse—long ago.

And if there’s anything I take offence to, it’s the idea that people with mental illness can’t be trusted with fiction. That we can’t separate art from reality. That we’ll snap at any moment. When, in truth, it’s the supposedly “healthy-minded” people who seem to be spiralling after this film.

It speaks volumes about the misunderstanding—and discrimination—that still surrounds conditions like mine, or Arthur’s. All this “Speak up! Talk to your friends! We care!” rhetoric becomes laughable when this is the reaction we get. When we’re viewed not as hurting, but as threats.

What if—just what if—this film does the opposite of what everyone fears? What if, instead of sparking violence, it quietens the rage? What if someone sees it and, for the first time, feels understood?

I think if people spent even half the energy they waste being outraged over fictional content on real-world issues, this planet might be a better place. And fewer films like Joker would need to be made in the first place.

As for the whole Gary Glitter song debate—Christ. Every time you buy a ticket to see a Hollywood film, you’re funding an industry built on exploitation. If you’re going to get your knickers in a twist, at least be ethically consistent about where you spend your money.

P.S. Just to clarify—I do actually like Daniel Craig’s Bond. But you get my point.