Movie review: Mad Max: Fury Road - Witness the Fury
Running a chainsaw through clichés, Mad Max: Fury Road deconstructs our expectations of what an action movie should be
Running a chainsaw through clichés, Mad Max: Fury Road deconstructs our expectations of what an action movie should be.
Perhaps, like Mad Max: Fury Road antagonist Immortan Joe’s wives (creepily referred to as “Breeders”), moviegoers have become accustomed to the corporeal (and corporate, in the case of movie goers) violence meted out to them over the past few years. We’ve almost taken for granted that the explosions, car chases and muscular heroes (never heroines) at their front and centre must come with product placement, a woeful script (“I don’t have friends, I got family”) and a Victoria’s Secret model in need of rescue.
Fury Road is a dazzling reminder of how audiences have sleepily accepted their compromised, corporatised fate, trusting it blindly in the hands of plastic superheroes who line up, like we do, in movie theatres every summer. Fury Road doesn’t just deconstruct our expectations of what an action movie should be; it puts an explosive-laden spear through it. George Miller, the septuagenarian Australian director who made the original Mad Max trilogy with Mel Gibson, is back to direct Fury Road 30 years after the original, in what is a cross between a reboot and sequel.
The plot belies the film’s title; it focuses on Imperator Furiosa (a marvellous Charlize Theron) and her attempt to get the Breeders out of Joe’s vaulted harem to safety, a ‘Green Point’ across the dystopic, orange desert where both fuel and water are scarce. Max (a lonely Tom Hardy) is simply a passenger (and occasional gun stand) who rides along, unsure of whether he’s the hostage or a kidnapper. Incensed at his wives’ flight, Joe sends his entire army, kamikaze War Boys and a flamethrower guitarist, after the Breeders, Furiosa and Max.
Miller eschews the urban battleground we’re accustomed to, preferring wide, desolate open spaces reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia. He swaps corporate logos for a singular skull, appearing on steering wheels and Joe’s face, and replaces the muscular superhero with a bald woman with a prosthetic arm. The Victoria’s Secret model, however, remains in the form of Rosie Huntington-Whitely —better cast as one of Joe’s wives than she was in Transformers.
Miller also runs a chainsaw through the screenplay, leaving a script as sparse as throats in his fictional universe. That isn’t to say it’s purely functional; even with such little dialogue, Miller inserts an emotional intensity in Fury Road, amplified by neologisms that bring authenticity to this universe. “We’ll be McFeasting at the gates of Valhalla!” isn’t normal conversation anywhere except in and between The Citadel, Bullet Farm and Gas Town, where the War Boys equipped with their Blood Bags (humans) ask the others to ‘witness’ them before their chrome-sprayed faces are ripped apart by the earth-shaking explosions, bullets and sandstorms. The wives are also colourfully named: The Splendid Angharad, Capable, Toast the Knowing, The Dag and Cheedo the Fragile. Like in A Clockwork Orange, Miller doesn’t just open your eyes, he keeps them yanked ajar until long after they start tearing up. But in a good way.
The cars, from Furiosa and Max’s “War Rig” to Joe’s souped-up, lowrider-inspired monster truck, are beautiful. And so are the shotguns, the chastity belts, the Polecats and all the other lethal trinkets that inhabit this world. Miller's imagination is as wide and beautiful as the film’s shots.
As with the plot and screenplay, Miller is Spartan with the politics, keeping it simple. The poor, ragged masses with their begging bowls are at the bottom. They are at the mercy of the lofted Joe, a hoarder, who sits atop a well of water he shares only sparingly to remind the poor of his superiority. But Furiosa and the Breeders’ simple act of defiance is revolutionary, both on and off the screen. As Joe examines the empty vault where his wives were kept, the words “We are not things” were written to remind Joe, and perhaps the audience and studios, of a woman’s worth, even in that masculine-est of masculine places — the big-budget summer blockbuster. Halfway through we’re introduced to the Vuvalini, a few senior lady assassins who never miss a shot, that assist in the film’s climax. I left the theatre, dazed, with a singular question about every aspect of the film: “Who would have thought of it?”
With their father away fighting in the civil war, Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy grow up with their mother in somewhat reduced circumstances. They are a close family which inevitably has its squabbles and tragedies, but the bond holds even when male friends start to become part of the household.
Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, June 7th, 2015.
Fury Road is a dazzling reminder of how audiences have sleepily accepted their compromised, corporatised fate, trusting it blindly in the hands of plastic superheroes who line up, like we do, in movie theatres every summer. Fury Road doesn’t just deconstruct our expectations of what an action movie should be; it puts an explosive-laden spear through it. George Miller, the septuagenarian Australian director who made the original Mad Max trilogy with Mel Gibson, is back to direct Fury Road 30 years after the original, in what is a cross between a reboot and sequel.
The plot belies the film’s title; it focuses on Imperator Furiosa (a marvellous Charlize Theron) and her attempt to get the Breeders out of Joe’s vaulted harem to safety, a ‘Green Point’ across the dystopic, orange desert where both fuel and water are scarce. Max (a lonely Tom Hardy) is simply a passenger (and occasional gun stand) who rides along, unsure of whether he’s the hostage or a kidnapper. Incensed at his wives’ flight, Joe sends his entire army, kamikaze War Boys and a flamethrower guitarist, after the Breeders, Furiosa and Max.
Miller eschews the urban battleground we’re accustomed to, preferring wide, desolate open spaces reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia. He swaps corporate logos for a singular skull, appearing on steering wheels and Joe’s face, and replaces the muscular superhero with a bald woman with a prosthetic arm. The Victoria’s Secret model, however, remains in the form of Rosie Huntington-Whitely —better cast as one of Joe’s wives than she was in Transformers.
Miller also runs a chainsaw through the screenplay, leaving a script as sparse as throats in his fictional universe. That isn’t to say it’s purely functional; even with such little dialogue, Miller inserts an emotional intensity in Fury Road, amplified by neologisms that bring authenticity to this universe. “We’ll be McFeasting at the gates of Valhalla!” isn’t normal conversation anywhere except in and between The Citadel, Bullet Farm and Gas Town, where the War Boys equipped with their Blood Bags (humans) ask the others to ‘witness’ them before their chrome-sprayed faces are ripped apart by the earth-shaking explosions, bullets and sandstorms. The wives are also colourfully named: The Splendid Angharad, Capable, Toast the Knowing, The Dag and Cheedo the Fragile. Like in A Clockwork Orange, Miller doesn’t just open your eyes, he keeps them yanked ajar until long after they start tearing up. But in a good way.
The cars, from Furiosa and Max’s “War Rig” to Joe’s souped-up, lowrider-inspired monster truck, are beautiful. And so are the shotguns, the chastity belts, the Polecats and all the other lethal trinkets that inhabit this world. Miller's imagination is as wide and beautiful as the film’s shots.
As with the plot and screenplay, Miller is Spartan with the politics, keeping it simple. The poor, ragged masses with their begging bowls are at the bottom. They are at the mercy of the lofted Joe, a hoarder, who sits atop a well of water he shares only sparingly to remind the poor of his superiority. But Furiosa and the Breeders’ simple act of defiance is revolutionary, both on and off the screen. As Joe examines the empty vault where his wives were kept, the words “We are not things” were written to remind Joe, and perhaps the audience and studios, of a woman’s worth, even in that masculine-est of masculine places — the big-budget summer blockbuster. Halfway through we’re introduced to the Vuvalini, a few senior lady assassins who never miss a shot, that assist in the film’s climax. I left the theatre, dazed, with a singular question about every aspect of the film: “Who would have thought of it?”
Must-watch feminist films
A girl walks home alone at night (2014)
In a crumbling Iranian city, a predator (Sheila Vand) prowls the dark streets. She glides through the night on a skateboard, donning a traditional black hijab and feasting on the flesh of men who disrespect women.
Clueless (1995)
A loose interpretation of Jane Austen’s Emma, Clueless boasts a strong cast of comedic women who are not only outspoken and confident, but also reflect on their choices and take responsibility for the course of their lives.
Little women (1994)
With their father away fighting in the civil war, Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy grow up with their mother in somewhat reduced circumstances. They are a close family which inevitably has its squabbles and tragedies, but the bond holds even when male friends start to become part of the household.
Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, June 7th, 2015.