The Blogs: Should We Free the Joker for Xmas and Let Him Cha-Cha on Dancing with the Stars?

In a country that loves its anti-heroes as much as it loves a pub yarn, we’re faced with an important question: should Arthur Fleck, the Joker, be freed in Joker: Folie à Deux? At first glance, this seems like a Gotham City problem, but it’s the same debate we’ve had in our own Australian backyard—how we view criminals, mental illness, and the curious way we elevate outlaws from villains to icons. After all, if Arthur Fleck had been born in the old country, he might have ended up on a $100 note.

Australia has long had a conflicted relationship with its criminal past. We’re a nation built, in part, by convicts—people sent halfway across the world for petty crimes, armed with nothing but their will to survive and (in some cases) a bit of cheeky rebelliousness. We wear that history as a badge of honour. Our founding criminals, the likes of Ned Kelly and the Eureka rebels, weren’t just criminals; they became national symbols of defiance, fighting against authority, and, ultimately, folk heroes. We love a good rogue, especially one who sticks it to the man. So, when it comes to Arthur Fleck, the Joker, should we be surprised that he’s gained a similar standing?

In Folie à Deux, Arthur Fleck is no longer just the guy with a disturbing laugh and a body count. He’s a deeply troubled man who embodies the failures of the system. Forgotten by society, isolated in his own mental illness, Arthur’s descent into madness becomes a kind of perverse survival story—something we Aussies understand all too well. Remember, half of our colonial ancestors were criminals shipped here for things as trivial as stealing a loaf of bread, and now, their resilience has been mythologised into the DNA of our nation.

Like our own convicts, Arthur Fleck wasn’t born a monster—he was made into one. We can sympathise with that, can’t we? After all, how many bushrangers and rebellious settlers were moulded by a system that didn’t give a toss about their wellbeing, that treated them as disposable? Our history is littered with criminals who were, in many cases, victims of circumstance. But here’s where it gets interesting: we didn’t leave them to rot in obscurity; we immortalised them. Ned Kelly, who terrorised police and banks with his bulletproof suit, didn’t just die on the gallows—he became an Aussie legend, his face plastered on murals, coffee mugs, and postcards.

In Fleck’s case, we see something similar happening in Gotham’s warped universe. Despite his heinous actions, there’s a growing group of people who view him as a folk hero, a figurehead of rebellion against an unjust society. We’ve been there before. Ned Kelly’s famous last words—“Such is life”—are now part of our national lexicon. We raise statues of the man, but would we have done the same if we lived in his time, dodging bullets? It’s a good question. It seems we love our criminals a whole lot more after they’re safely buried six feet under or romanticised in film and literature.

Of course, in today’s Australia, we might not see Fleck leading a gang of bushrangers across the outback, but we could very well see him on a 60 Minutes redemption special, explaining how it wasn’t him, it was the mental illness, and how society failed him. In the land of second chances, who’s to say Fleck wouldn’t be given a platform to explain his side of the story.

In a country that idolises its outlaws and forgives its eccentrics, Arthur Fleck wouldn’t need a miracle to be freed. He’d just need a good publicist and a decent film crew. And with a bit of time, he’d be another Ned Kelly—just with more makeup and a much bigger body count.

Welcome to Australia, where we don’t just free the Joker; we make him a legend. Or at the very least, give him a go on Dancing with the Stars, on day release.