I’m standing on a platform, looking down into a crowd of thugs cheering on Two-Face to execute Catwoman. My objective is to clear the room to save the feline damsel who hardly seems distressed. There’s one thug in the room who is armed, and I would have to take him out before attempting anything else. A box pops up on the screen advising me to do so. “OK!” I think to myself, as I dive face-first into the crowd… without taking out the armed man.
What ensues is a frantic struggle to fight off thugs while bullets come pelting my way. I use the grappling hook to raise myself back onto the platform, spot the gunman, knock him over but fail to take him out, he picks up his gun and resumes shooting at me. I drop back onto the ground and flail around, use the grappling hook to fly back up, drop back down, find the gunman, take him out, then find myself back on the ground. Apparently, I’m Batman, but Batman would never have done any of those things.
I am a Batman fan, but my love for him and his universe makes me the worst Batman.
My love affair with The Dark Knight began upon the discovery of the graphic novel version of Batman Returns. As a child I read it every day, cross-referencing panels with the film itself and assessing the accuracy of facial expressions. This proceeded to the almost-daily viewings of Batman Forever and Batman and Robin on VHS, supplemented by whatever comics I could get my hands on. The animated series came next as I sat in front of the television, wide-eyed and completely mesmerised by the creation of Harley Quinn and the rebooted re-telling of how Two-Face became disfigured. I later discovered the darker, grittier and haunting graphic novels of Alan Moore and Grant Morrison.
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