Six months after Heath Ledger’s death, the wound’s still fresh. Yes, that’s it. Let it out. We know, that’s the grief talking. No hard feelings. The circumstance itself is cruel. If Ledger on screen was anything, he was alive. He had just seemed to establish, and to have earned, his staying power when he died. It says a lot about his talent, and about his moment in movie history that we can’t help but approach Ledger’s final full performance in “The Dark Knight” with the rueful certainty that his turn as the Joker will put Jack Nicholson’s to shame. Ledger looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t gloat about that, so of course we want to pat him on the back for his decency, too. How confoundingly indecent of him to become permanently unavailable. On the other hand, given that his most emotionally stirring work always found a way to balance bravery with restraint, why not imagine this discontinuation of his career as also its ballsiest choice, an improvised masterstroke of Joker-approved gallows humor?
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