The Dark Knight

On opening weekend, I saw The Dark Knight (the newest Batman film for any of you who, by some miraculous act, have no idea what I'm talking about).  I stood in a disconcertingly long line outside the theatre only to find that our late-arriving friends had caused us to miss out on any seating opportunity that would not put a permanent crick in my neck.  We switched theatres, and finally—finally!—got to see the film. 

There was something worrying about watching the film for me, recognizing that part of the film's hype must have at least a bit to do with the recent death of Heath Ledger (Ledger played the Joker in the film, for the hopelessly unaware).  Ledger was a method actor--an actor who actually becomes a character while filming, incorporating that character's attitude, outlook, and actions into their everyday life as much as possible.  One thing is certain: this worked for Ledger.  The performance, as everyone says, is amazing.  It's the kind of performance that makes you remember that acting is tough work, especially when you're playing a sociopath.

On a roundabout way to my point.  The problem for me, then, is that while I sat there watching Ledger's convincing performance (it's hard even to discern that it's him), I couldn't help but think that his role as the Joker in part contributed to his death.  Did he not try to embody the life of a crazy person?  A killer who toys with people's emotions, who has no compassion or empathy for anyone?  And if so, wasn't that a likely contributor to his spiraling psychological issues, to his drug abuse that ultimately killed him?

I'm not trying to point fingers here, or make a judgment call about Hollywood or what is sacrificed in our adamant demand for entertainment.  What Ledger accomplished in the film is legendary, but at what cost?  All I know is that while I sat there watching the last role that Ledger filmed, I felt a little guilty.  A little like a conspirator.  A little sad.