The Dark Night

Bobby saw "The Dark Knight" at midnight.
He entered the theater and smelt the essence of the bearded comic book junky and the cooped up overzealous fan. Boys in make-up, young santa clause in training scribling characters of his own, non-descript chicks wearing black pants... all was as expected... almost...

Now, the Bronse is not a forum for movie reviews, but I will allow this post to dip into philosophical, and possibly dick suckingly trite, praise of the film.
I was worried about the jokester in the full theater who likes to make loud jokes at tense moments, eliciting chuckles from the lamer audience members. This happened only during the previews as most people there were focused fans... it was either that or the gripping and mind-fucking story line kept the less-thans too confused to hurl out some lame aside.
As good as the film was on it's own merrit, one cannot possibly watch the movie without feeling loss and awe at what might have been. Heath Ledger's cinematic eulogy to himself turned the movie up to eleven. The audience clapped after his first scene, partly in homage and partly because, from moment one, everyone knew we were witnessing greatness.
Some thought that Jack played Joker best and, like Willy Wonka, nobody should have the audacity to try a do-over. Like painting water lillies over Monet's water lillies or re-recording the vocals of Freddy Mercury, the idea of Heath's performance was suspect. But rising from the flames of that argument was a performance so transendent, that we are all reminded that movies are stories and that to assume any story has already been told perfectly is to undermine the concept of art itself.
Heath Ledger will win an Academy Award. And when watching and rewatching "The Dark Knight," we will all be filled with awe and sadness, because the greatness that has been preseved will only heighten the feeling of loss for what other stories he might have told...

Why so serious indeed?