Beware of cult flicks, though, whose reputation sits uneasily on little more than a look how often did the restive kids who papered their walls with stills of “Easy Rider,” or of Brando in “The Wild One,” sit through the actual movie? The earlier “Mad Max” films, it pains me to report, have not weathered well they seem overacted and overscored, chuckling at nastiness, and held together mainly by the presence of Mel Gibson in the title role.
All three films were directed by George Miller (he had a co-director on the third), and they have acquired the burnish of a cult. He returned, in similar guise, in “The Road Warrior” (1981) and “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome” (1985), opposite a resplendent Tina Turner. His outfit, like his automobile, was of battered black. He first appeared in “Mad Max” (1979), as a youthful cop bent on revenge after a murderous attack on his wife and child.
Furiosa takes the gun and hits the target, using Max’s shoulder as a rest. Gloria Steinem was never hired as a consultant on “The Dirty Dozen.”) Later comes a droll sequence with a sniper’s rifle, as our hero aims at a searchlight, in the distant gloom, but misses. (The Wives were coached in preparation for the film by Eve Ensler, the author of “The Vagina Monologues.” This must be a first. I have been looking forward to this movie for months, trying not to watch the trailers more than twice a day, but, fool that I am, I hadn’t foreseen its feminist ambitions-crystallized in the sight of one Wife, heavily pregnant, flinging wide the door of the War Rig and flaunting her belly, like a bronze shield, at her enraged pursuers. Yet the film not only recovers but winds up as a testament to female resilience, thanks to the Vuvalini-a small and leathery tribe of matriarchs, described by the film’s production designer as “lovely old bikie chicks.” Astride belching motorcycles, they hare up and down sand dunes, and accompany Max, Furiosa, and the Wives on the final leg of the plot. Our first glimpse of them bodes ill: limber beauties, draped in muslin underwear and hosing themselves down in the middle of nowhere. We soon discover her concealed cargo-the Wives, five young women who were imprisoned by Immortan Joe and doomed to bear his children. Furiosa is a driver, employed by Joe’s henchmen to transport precious fuel, who suddenly goes rogue, steering the War Rig, her vast and snarling truck, off course. One of his longest lines is “Hope is a mistake.”įuriosa has a prosthetic arm, and her tendency to smear black grease across her brow may cause the fragrance honchos at Dior, where Theron is paid to spread the word about J’Adore, to reach for their atomizers. Just as you’re wondering if the poor guy will ever express himself freely, however, Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a new acquaintance of Max’s, asks, “You want that thing off your face?” The day is saved, though it’s not as if he starts chatting away like Cary Grant in “His Girl Friday.” You could tattoo the entirety of Max’s dialogue onto his biceps. Tom Hardy fans, who struggled so intently to understand him when he played Bane, in “The Dark Knight Rises,” may be less than thrilled to learn that their hero’s speech is yet again impeded. Max, being Max, tries to escape, only to be grabbed once more and strapped to the front of a vehicle, like a fender of flesh, with his sturdy features barred by a metal grille. Probably a charming fellow, once you get to know him.
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His toadlike skin is caged in a transparent breastplate, and he breathes through a mask that’s armed with yellowing horses’ teeth and fed by bellows that wheeze up and down on the back of his neck. Girded with towers of rock, this is the desert stronghold of Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), a monstrous figure who lords it over a swarm of ragged wretches. Max is a survivor, like everyone else, and, as we join the stream of action, he is captured and hauled into servitude at the Citadel. The landscape is dying of thirst water-known as Aqua Cola-is severely rationed and other resources, notably gasoline, are hoarded and tussled over like scraps of food. There are no cities or civilizations left. And there, in one image, you have George Miller’s film-wild and unrelenting, but also possessed of the outlandish poetry, laced with hints of humor, that rises to the surface when the world is all churned up. Second, he washes it off not with water but with mother’s milk, siphoned from a gas tanker. This is unsurprising, since he has just engaged in one of many fights, but two points are worthy of note. There is a moment, in “Mad Max: Fury Road,” when Max (Tom Hardy) washes blood off his face. George Miller’s new film gathers up all that we seem to crave, right now, from our movies, and yanks it to the limit.
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