Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

Early signs were distinctly unpromising for this beyond belated fourth entry in the post-apocalyptic car wars saga. Delayed from its original 2013 release date, dogged by tales of an overrunning budget, and losing its original leading man years ago, FURY ROAD seemed destined only to be the runaway favourite at next year’s Razzie awards. Surely nobody could fill Mel Gibson’s boots as the antipodean anti-hero? Surely the Max franchise had run its noisy late 70s/early 80s course? Surely director George Miller could have little else to say about the world with his most famous creation?

Let this be a lesson to all of us: never trust those early signs again. MAD MAX revs back on to the big screen in extraordinary style. At the very least a shoo-in for most exciting film of the year, FURY ROAD is both an instant action classic and a reminder of how cinema can refresh the parts other artforms just can’t reach.

Neither a sequel nor a reboot, Miller sidesteps the whole question and simply reintroduces the character afresh. Max (Tom Hardy, succeeding Gibson) is a variation on the Man With No Name, haunted by the death of his family, wandering aimlessly through the ruins of the world. As in the two previous sequels, he falls in with a group of innocent people seeking to escape the gang of thugs and psychopaths who rule the roost in the absence of any sort of government or law enforcement. In FURY ROAD he reluctantly teams up with Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a “breeder” belonging to nutcase warlord Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), who has made a bid for freedom with Joe’s other female slaves/wives/concubines in search of her childhood home – the “Green Place”. Joe doesn’t take too kindly to her leave of absence, to say the least, and what follows is one of the longest and most memorable chase sequences in film history.

The formula might be unchanged and the plot as flat as the scorched landscape, but that doesn’t matter one bit. Once FURY ROAD gets going it barely stops for breath; with the basic set up out of the way, Miller is free to create the kind of inventive explosive mayhem that only a massive Hollywood budget can buy: bad guys pole vault across cars, explosive-tipped spears pierce cars and people, vehicles flip in every direction. The wide open spaces and clear blue skies of the Namibian desert, beautifully captured by cinematographer John Seale, mean there’s nowhere to hide. The view is spectacular.

But Miller doesn’t sacrifice everything on the altar of spectacle. The breathless set pieces follow one after another so quickly that there’s little time for much else, but he has still sketched a few significant roles, the meatiest of which goes to Theron. Shaven headed and sporting a mechanical prosthetic arm, her Furiosa nonetheless brings a compassionate, human dimension to the story, counterbalancing Max’s empty fatalism and Joe’s regressive patriarchy. The latter’s society treats women as livestock and keeps the general populace satiated with the occasional promise of water (perhaps the first time that water has merited as much importance as fuel in Max’s world). The other women, including Zoë Kravitz and Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, are each given enough time to register independently as different victims of Joe’s abusive regime who have chosen to make a stand. The film ultimately suggests that women, and only women, can save civilization – a somewhat unlikely message to come from conservative Hollywood.

Max is almost relegated to a supporting role in his own movie; though Hardy does well, he isn’t given much opportunity to put his stamp on the role (and his Aussie accent comes and goes with a mind of its own). Nicholas Hoult fares better as Nux, one of Joe’s minions who tags along for the ride, but this is still a Mad Max movie through and through; as explosive and radical and fresh as he and his director have ever been.


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