(Warner Bros.)
I wish I could say I remember it like it was yesterday, but
that would be lying. July 18th, 2008 was a sunny summer evening like
any other, but one that now has great personal significance. As my parents and
I stood in line at the box office to pick up our tickets (I, of course, had
made sure we ordered in advance), I observed each of the four people in front
of us walk up to the ticket seller and, as if reading from a script, recite the
exact same words: “Hi, one for The Dark
Knight.”
Now, was this really all that unique for the Friday night of
a huge Hollywood blockbuster’s opening weekend? Probably not. But the fact that
everyone in that lobby was at that cinema for the same exact reason seemed
special to me, then only a nine-year-old. It was almost as if everyone already
recognized the significance of what was to come. It only fueled my excitement.
I only have a handful of scattered memories from that actual
first viewing. My mom had forgotten a sweater and my dad managed to drive home,
grab one, and still be back before it started. During the movie, as Batman
threw the Joker off the Prewitt Building’s balcony only to immediately halt his
maniacal one-way trip to the ground floor, the elderly woman in the seat next
to me questioned, “Why didn’t he let him die?” (Even at nine I knew the answer
to that one.) I like to think it’s the only non-festival screening I’ve attended
that ended with a standing ovation—quite the accomplishment for anything playing
in a suburban Minnesota multiplex—but I don’t know how much of that memory is a
personal embellishment.
In May of 2015—seven years later but almost one third of my
lifetime—I got to revisit The Dark Knight
at the Walker Art Center’s cinema (my third time on the big screen and first
since the initial release). That one I do remember clearly. I remember
observing the couple in the row in front of me, one of whom I gathered had
never seen the film, quietly exclaim “Jesus” to himself as the Joker stuck his
head out the window a moving police car like a mad dog—a masterful inaudible
moment to cap off one of the most suspenseful and gut-wrenching 20 minutes of
escalating tension and anarchy in modern cinema, and now one of its most iconic
images. I can remember being completely transported by that screen despite
having seen the film an uncountable number of times at home. And I remember vowing
that night to see The Dark Knight on
the big screen every time the opportunity was available to me (a promise I have
since upheld).
(Warner Bros.)
To many of you, these anecdotes probably seem trivial. But
to me, these two evenings spent at the movies are as sure a sign of how much I grew
in those seven short years and how much the film being projected had to do with
it. See, The Dark Knight isn’t just
any movie, it’s my favorite movie. Moreover, it’s the film that taught me how
to love movies. It’s as fundamental to my identity as anything else—a cherished
text, teacher, and friend. And since today is the 10th anniversary
of Christopher Nolan’s masterpiece, I felt that it was only right to take the
time to attempt an expression of how much it means to me.
My explanation for The
Dark Knight’s influence over me is
deceptively—perhaps even confusingly— simple. That is, it took me from loving
movies to loving films because it is at once movie and film. Now, you’d be correct if your initial instinct after reading
that is to argue that the words “movie” and “film” are synonymous. That much is
technically true, and we often use them interchangeably. But as any cinephile
knows, the word “film” gives a motion picture a certain distinction. It raises the
medium to a level that signifies artistic merit in addition to cheap thrills.
Nine-year-old me loved movies, but only for their
plot-driven ability to entertain. I had never given any thought to the amount
of effort it takes to choreograph an incredible stunt or write an engrossing scene
of back-and-forth dialogue. And even after I saw The Dark Knight for the first time, I still didn’t think about any
of those things. It almost immediately became my favorite movie, just not for
the same reasons that it is now. I loved it because it was about Batman and
because great filmmaking doesn’t require a college degree to appreciate. But as
I continuously rewatched my DVD (and later my Blu-ray…and then my second
Blu-ray) over the years, I also just so happened to be growing up. And with age
comes wisdom, or at least however much wisdom a middle schooler can realistically
possess. In short, as I changed, the movie changed. It became deeper, more intelligent,
and ever more present in my mind.
(Warner Bros.)
By the time I entered high school, The Dark Knight was no longer just a fantastic Batman story, it was
a grand tragedy of idealism corrupted by the unavoidable disorder of organized
society; it was a series of ambiguous morality tests with no easy answers; it
was a decidedly darker and more realistic superhero outing that the wider film
industry kept trying (and failing) to replicate; it was the film that sparked
change in the Oscars, thereby changing what kinds of movies we celebrate and
remember. By sophomore year, I wasn’t only going to see action films on the big
screen, I was hunting down adult dramas and independent productions and
comparing their performances and direction to the excellence I had come to
recognize in my go-to favorite. And by the time I made it to college, the full depth
of what I had been carrying with me for years had been revealed. Suddenly the
opening skyline shot Nolan launches us into isn’t just a pretty picture but an
immediate and striking statement using the lack of neo-Gothic architecture from
Batman Begins—now replaced by the
shimmering glass prisms of Chicago—to encourage us to place the events on
screen in the modern cities we already inhabit. The story was no longer great
simply because it took itself seriously but because it was an allegory for the
moral ambiguity of post-9/11 America, for our “War on Terror”, all of it transferred
to the confines of a single fictional setting.
Why is it that The
Dark Knight has endured for so long? Why is it that we somehow already knew
it was destined to be a cinematic classic when its fifth anniversary came
around? These are questions that cannot be answered easily or in brief. Perhaps
we continue to be fascinated by it because we are bombarded with new superhero
films on an almost monthly basis and yet not a single one has come even close
to topping Nolan’s. Perhaps it’s because the late Heath Ledger’s turn as the
Joker is not only the most celebrated performance in the genre but one of the
most revelatory and transformative performances ever given by an actor. Or perhaps it’s because it perfectly and
succinctly summarizes the essence of an entire period of American politics into
a package that’s at once easy to consume and hard to digest.
Whatever the case, it’s a film that we keep coming back to.
But ultimately, none of that matters to me. The
Dark Knight could have been completely forgotten by the rest of the world and
it would still mean the world to me. I am who I am because of this one movie.
As I recall that Friday night in 2008, I can only marvel at how much of my
identity can be traced back to it. Where would I be now if my parents had concluded
that the film was probably a bit too
mature for a nine-year-old? (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) Who would I be without that
obsession that almost certainly bugged the living hell out of the people close
to me? Those are questions that I can never answer, and I’m glad I will never
have to.
And with all that said, I feel that there’s only one last
thing I can add here: Thank you, my friend, for being with me for the last 10
years. Thank you for getting me to where I am. I can’t wait to see where we’ll
be for the big 2-0.
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