Martin's decision to write and star in The Joker split Hollywood's opinions down the middle.
The high-profile project wasn't universally celebrated.
Skeptics were plenty.
"As a supporting character, the Joker's captivating, sure," one critic wrote. "But as the lead? Come on. I don't think a comic book villain has what it takes to carry a film. Martin's probably been seduced by the Joker's success in The Dark Knight, thinking he can stretch that into a starring role and still hit it big."
"This is a gamble," another opined. "Warner Bros. is betting big, and so is Martin. Hollywood's never seen a comic book villain lead a film to success. Let's hope this isn't Martin Meyers' Waterloo."
Cameron Diaz tossed the newspaper aside, fuming. "These idiots! They know nothing about our project and still have the gall to trash it!"
Martin, unfazed, just smiled. "That's par for the course. If some outlets are hyping us up, others will tear us down. It's actually a good thing."
"Good?" Cameron raised an eyebrow.
"Yup. Controversy breeds buzz. Unanimous praise gets boring. Besides, I'm not a dollar bill—I can't make everyone happy."
"But I hate seeing these clowns criticize you," she said, her fingers brushing Martin's chest. The once-chiseled pecs were gone, replaced by a gaunt frame where ribs stood out starkly.
Cameron's heart ached, but she also felt a surge of admiration. For someone of Martin's stature to sacrifice so much for a role was true dedication.
It was a sentiment shared by the entire crew.
…
In his mind, Martin had meticulously reviewed the original timeline's Joker film. Its success owed much to Joaquin Phoenix's riveting performance—a one-man show demanding extraordinary skill.
But Martin was confident he could outdo it.
…
At the film's New York shooting base, Martin pushed open the meeting room door.
"Good morning, Mr. Meyers."
"Good morning, Ms. Diaz."
"Good morning, Director Meyers."
"Good morning, Miss Cameron."
The crew greeted Martin and Cameron with warmth, their enthusiasm genuine. Cameron felt it—a glow of acceptance. No wonder Anne Hathaway loves being seen with Martin in public, she thought. This feels incredible.
Since pairing up with Martin, Cameron hadn't faced a single cold shoulder or icy stare in Hollywood. It was as if, overnight, everyone had become her friend.
Martin let go of her hand, scanning the room. Everyone was present. He stepped to the head of the conference table, cleared his throat, and spoke loudly:
"Some of you have worked with me before, some more than once. Others are new faces. Those who know me know I lay out the ground rules upfront. My set tolerates no drugs, no slackers, and no half-hearted efforts. I demand excellence. If I catch anyone not earning their paycheck, I'll cut them loose without hesitation."
The room grew solemn.
Martin cracked a smile. "You've seen me now—I dropped thirty pounds for this role. That should tell you how seriously I'm taking this project. I expect the same from all of you."
"Alright, enough of the heavy stuff. Let's dive into task assignments. Actors, hang tight—we'll get to the script read-through shortly."
…
Filming for The Joker officially began.
Assistant director Todd Phillips sat before the monitor, watching Martin slowly shed his jacket, then the shirt underneath. They were about to shoot a scene where Arthur changes in the company locker room.
It was a tough one. With his back to the camera, Martin couldn't rely on facial expressions to convey emotion. How would he project Arthur's crushing loneliness through just his silhouette?
Truth be told, Todd Phillips was curious.
At thirty-eight, Phillips was a Hollywood heavyweight. His films—Road Trip, Old School, Starsky & Hutch, The Hangover—were box office gold. A director of his caliber wouldn't typically play second fiddle, but Martin's invitation was hard to refuse.
Phillips' biggest hits, Starsky & Hutch and The Hangover, were collaborations with Martin and Meyers Pictures. He felt indebted. Plus, Martin had a reason for wanting him: in the original timeline, Phillips directed Joker.
Martin peeled off his shirt, revealing a skeletal frame. The crew gasped inwardly. Seeing him shed his clothes drove home just how drastic losing thirty pounds was for a man of his build.
Phillips' eyes were glued to the monitor. Martin turned slowly, walking to a narrow bench and sitting with his back to the crew. His arms crossed behind him, shoulder blades jutting sharply, body twisting to reveal stark ribs, his posture hunched.
No music. No dialogue. Yet a raw, desolate loneliness poured out, enveloping everyone on set.
Phillips' eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath escaping him. This is unreal. He'd worked with Martin on Starsky & Hutch, a comedy reliant on exaggerated physicality. Back then, he'd thought Martin's body language rivaled even Jim Carrey, Hollywood's king of physical comedy.
But now? Carrey who? Martin was in a league of his own, the undisputed master of physical expression.
Nearby, Joaquin Phoenix watched, transfixed. A seasoned supporting actor with a knack for stealing scenes, he'd secretly tried tackling Arthur's role after reading the full script.
It was tough—his first thought.
I can do this—his second.
But watching Martin today, Phoenix realized Martin was leagues ahead. A man in his twenties, riding high on success, had flawlessly embodied a middle-aged loser, desolate in both career and life. The emotional leap was staggering, and in terms of raw skill, Phoenix knew he couldn't compare.
No wonder he's on top, Phoenix thought. That level of craft is unreal.