He said that what you call normal is just a cage in the brain. Putting aside my visual obsession with its actor, I wanted to be as objective (okay impossible) as possible about my understanding of the character. He is the creator of chaos, but not chaos itself. His madness is based on a rational understanding of the basic logic of personnel, which is reflected in his repeated design layouts to complete his own performances. It is said that the key to winning the audience's love for the villain is to gain understanding. When the audience's empathy plays a role, or even becomes obsessed with the character itself, the villain will gain appreciation and understanding. Because he triggers the G-spot in people's hearts, the organs are opened, and driven by instinct, moral right and wrong are not so important. Jerome's most classic scene, he bowed his head, closed his eyes in pain, then slowly raised his eyes, picked up his eyes sloppily, and smirked on his face, his throat oozing a little bit. "You're fucking a clown next door." Torn tone, a little exaggerated performance. I like it very much, Joker. Although not real, the skeleton came out and the soul was there. He is not a person, but an idea, a catharsis, immortalized in the shadows, in Gotham's grievances.
Why not alone? Because the morbidity is too sharp, too exaggerated, too wanton, but a bit artistic packaging, whether it is makeup, performance, personality, all too bright, like abstract works displayed on the white panel of PPT, beauty is beautiful, but there are A strange smell. Irregular overly random objects, yes, he's not full and real enough.
Not real enough. Art is higher than life, and its beauty lies in its flaws. There is always a false feeling to an object that is beautiful to the extreme, but it is undeniable that it is beauty.
What really interested me was Jerome's attitude towards Bruce.
Obession.
Use the word, obsessed.
"I want to smear your whole body with honey and put it in a vessel full of man-eating beetles."
Insect bite is the pain of bit by bit, the despair of nowhere to focus, and the feeling of the world. He wants him to experience this feeling for himself, he wants him to go down to the altar.
The three views are clear and bright, the spine is upright, and the small chin hidden in the high-neck black sweater is extravagant. This is a completely different person from himself. A child who grew up in a lower-class circus and was covered in mud, cramped and grew up. He was excited when he saw the beautiful young master, and the black magma surging in the bone marrow of the young master. Inquisitive, manic, and some quiet seriousness.
The playground is humbly invited, laughing at the temptation and teasing, as well as the usual performance-style communication.
"Brucy." That was his nickname. Eating by ear, crawling in and licking people's minds, corroding and reshaping them. What he wants to do is cruel cultivation, inserting into the lower abdomen of the follower, stirring with his fingers, bringing out the blood of Nong Li, painting on Bruce's face, a pair of beautiful drooping lip lines. To obey, he wants unconditional trust.
Bruce Wayne. He was willing to look for the name, crush it, reshape it, and put his own blood into it. He thought he did a good job.
If Jerome is a crazy abstract painting, then Jerome is the back of this painting. A beautiful and upright white paper, appearance or thinking, are extremely neat and beautiful. But please move it under the light and take a closer look, the paintings on the back of him will show up little by little, floating transparently in mid-air, behind his transparent lenses, floating in the labyrinth in his mind. The two brothers were born with the same name, and some things in their blood were the same. crazy.
Madness, once expressed in an art form, is inevitably addictive, it teaches obsession. Madness itself has a kind of innate superiority. It has the strength of magnets, attracting people with the same elements in their blood to approach each other.
Tribute to him, Jerome. Jerome.
I wish, restless in the soil, eternal life as sleep.
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