There’s a reason Batman: The Killing Joke has remained a fixture in Bat-lore since it dropped in 1988, and no, it’s not just because of that one scene that everyone (rightfully) won’t shut up about. This graphic novel, written by Alan Moore and drawn by Brian Bolland, is the Citizen Kane of Joker stories, if only because it wrestles with the big questions: Why does the Joker do what he does? What makes Batman keep doing what he does? And, more importantly, where’s the line between the two of them? Spoiler: It’s a lot blurrier than either guy’s comfortable with.
Now, you’ve probably heard the setup: Joker shoots Barbara Gordon (a.k.a. Batgirl) and paralyzes her in an effort to prove his thesis that anyone—even someone as upright as Commissioner Jim Gordon—can be driven mad by a single bad day. His plan? Drag Jim through a fever dream of psychological torment to break him, and by extension, demonstrate that he’s not so different from everyone else. It’s the Joker’s big philosophical power move. This is his I’m-not-crazy-you’re-crazy TED Talk.
But here’s where The Killing Joke shines—it’s not really about the plot. It’s about what the plot reveals. It’s about the Joker’s origin story (well, an origin—the book itself is careful to hedge its bets on how reliable it is). The Joker starts out as a sad-sack, down-on-his-luck comedian with one very bad day that turns him into the Clown Prince of Crime. And what makes the story stick in the ribs is the way it parallels Batman’s own bad day: the death of his parents. Both men were formed in fire, but while Batman tries to control his flame, the Joker just burns.
And let’s not forget the art. Brian Bolland’s pencils are stunningly precise, with every panel a masterclass in how to convey madness through minute details. It’s the eyes—the eyes sell the Joker’s unpredictability, his unpredictability sells his terror, and that terror? It’s Batman’s shadow. Bolland’s work is a great example of how the right artist can elevate a story that’s already doing laps in the deep end of existential crisis.
Here’s the kicker: The Killing Joke pulls off a neat trick by asking a question we never really want to answer. Is Batman’s moral code sustainable? Is his refusal to kill the Joker a sign of strength, or is it the one chink in his armor that will, one day, doom him? That final scene—the one where the two arch-nemeses share a laugh, of all things—asks us if there’s really any difference between the hero and the villain. It’s the uncomfortable reminder that, deep down, Batman’s just as driven by obsession as the Joker, just on the opposite side of the coin.
That’s the beauty of The Killing Joke: it doesn’t give you answers. It gives you questions—and that’s where its staying power lies. Is it perfect? Not by a long shot. Moore himself has been vocally unhappy with it over the years. And yes, Barbara’s victimization is a dark stain that’s sparked important conversations about the treatment of women in comics. But even with its flaws, The Killing Joke is a psychological chess match between two iconic characters who need each other, like it or not.
So, what’s so great about Batman: The Killing Joke? It’s the messy, twisted reflection it holds up to one of the most popular relationships in all of pop culture. It’s the way it forces us to question the very nature of heroism, villainy, and the blurred line between the two. It’s the way it makes us laugh—and then wonder why we’re laughing at all.