Although Cox’s name is on the title page he merely services (with commendable efficiency) the pre-existing narrative created by the film’s director, Christopher Nolan, and his brother Jonathan. Christopher Nolan took on the exhausted Batman film franchise with strict conditions as to his complete artistic freedom. There should be no genuflection to what Neil Gaiman would call an ‘American God’. A Wunderkind and an (English) English Literature graduate, fascinated by post-modernism, Nolan had, in his late twenties, written and directed Memento – a detective story told backwards through a hero with pathological memory loss, who has to tattoo clues on his arms.
The Batman series was, by the twenty-first century, ritually formulaic. A dastardly criminal – typically some circus-themed villain like The Joker – threatened Gotham City. Enter Batman and Robin to save the day with Bat-cave gadgetry. Batman, of course, was – in propria persona – millionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne. Rockefeller in cape and mask. Nolan, in his ‘Dark Knight’ trilogy, complicated and ultimately destroyed the formula – creative destruction, one could call it. Robin went. The design was darkened to pitch black. In the first film, infant Bruce is traumatised by witnessing the street murder of his parents. In the second film, the opponent is The Joker (played as a blood-chilling sadist by Heath Ledger). The third instalment finds Batman eight years retired and a pariah. He is believed to be the killer of Harvey Dent – the man who, before Batman threw him off a high building to his death, ‘cleaned up’ Gotham. In fact, Dent was evil incarnate. It was the maligned Batman who was the cleaner up. Bruce Wayne, now closing on forty, is no longer as rich. He is also a physical wreck. He still has Alfred Pennyworth, the British butler, to bring his drinks (too many of them). Alfred agonises over what he sees as a deathwish in his master. Wayne’s ally, James Gordon, one of the few honest cops in Gotham and someone who knows his secret, is at death’s door in hospital.
Things perk up when Catwoman breaks into the Wayne mansion to steal some family jewels (normal enough for a cat burglar) and Bruce’s fingerprints (why?). Out of uniform she is Selina Kyle, born working-class, with a grudge against the rich. Not a criminal, but a revolutionary. It emerges that Catwoman is working for the dreaded Bane, an old foe, who plans to destroy Gotham’s soul – and Batman’s body with it. The dead but not gone (he never will be) Ra’s al Ghul and his League of Shadows resurface, with a sinister tinge of Osama bin Laden. He has his eye on Wayne’s cold-fusion apparatus, which could give Gotham clean energy for ever, but which has never been activated – lest some villain convert it into a Doomsday machine. Doomsday is precisely what Bane wants.
Batman dies saving Gotham – or does he? Perhaps, like Hannibal and Clarice, he retires, more happily than first time round, to live an incognito life in Italy with Selina – political differences forgotten. Mother of God, can this be the end of Batman? As far as Nolan is concerned, it may well be.