By now, the glut of $100+ million projects should begin to wane on any regular moviegoer, let alone critic, if it hasn't already. We’ve entered an era of deafeningly monotonous musical compositions, absurdly extravagent CGI and miserably wasted actors and directors. The problems extend far beyond movies whose creative aspirations and studio constraints evidently (and inevitably) clash. It’s like pulling teeth at a certain point -- what benefit is there to picking at these cash cows, anyhow? They’re the standard, after all, and maybe critics such as myself are fighting the wrong battle. Because, really: how many times can you return to the same complaint?
Mad Max: Fury Road’s most substantial accomplishment may be its persuasive argument to keep fighting that good, endless fight. At once an exhilarating action flick, a stunning exercise in technical virtuosity and a swiftly existential expression, director George Miller’s latest apocalyptic epic is a marvel by just about any measure. It injects thrill and originality into not just a genre, but an annual three-month stretch of big-budget spectacle. Beyond a breath of fresh air, it’s a reminder of the artistry, the intelligence and the respect that deserves to be demanded of films of its budget and international appeal.
It’s been over three decades since Miller’s Mel Gibson-fronted Mad Max franchise introduced itself. Much has changed since, not even taking into account Gibson’s steep fall from grace. Miller went from fiery audacity to icy cuteness with Happy Feet, and before that won over sticky Academy members with the warm family classic Babe: Pig in the City. Oh, and did you hear? Combustible, apocalyptic cinematic universes are firmly the norm now.
Even so, the brazen, unadulterated newness of Mad Max is as palpable in 2015 as it was in 1979. Rip-roaring from the start, the franchise’s newest incarnation is utterly stripped of extraneous complications. It begins and ends with a chase, set in the fallout of a nuclear war. Max, now played by Tom Hardy, is kidnapped by Immortan Joe, a tyrannical ruler who mercilessly holds water and resources from a sea of starving, dehydrated citizens at the Citadel, his headquarters. He and his army promptly latch onto motorcycles and tanks, zipping through the post-apocalyptic wasteland after one of his lieutenants, Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), betrays him and takes off. After rescuing a group of women who were being held hostage as baby factories, she leads them on a quest to find the “Green Place” -- to give them, as well as herself, a reason to hope.
Max eventually frees himself from Joe, hitching up with Furiosa and the escapees shortly thereafter. Beyond that, the narrative journey of Mad Max is as linear as Furiosa’s roadmap: forward, forward, forward. Miller is simply too busy having fun for outside preoccupations. His land is ravaged without a trace of civilization, with boundless orange dirt resting beneath the expansive blue sky. Miller and cinematographer John Seale work seamlessly in such contrasts, ratcheting up and dialing down tension with poetic precision. There are no buildings to blow up; no all-powerful secret to rush towards. No distractions -- no complications.
Miller tosses rationality out the window. Joe’s army comes equipped with an electric guitar player, set to jam on a moment’s notice. Nicholas Hoult goes bonkers as Nux, the soldier brainwashed to a hilarious degree. And the chase sequences are as unrelenting as they are bonkers. Together with Seale and editor Margaret Sixel, Miller holds you in an insanity-clouded vise. His camerawork is kinetic; it’s always in movement, ever close and thus immersively pulsating. Moment to moment, the explosions are so frequent, the close-ups so jarringly rapid and the fluctuations in the music so vibrantly constant that clarity is never much of a concern.
In exploring such post-apocalyptic tropes as pregnancy and tyranny, and consummately the fight for survival, Fury Road is uninterested in a structural transcendence. In that sense, it parallels a similar rebuke to the Hollywood machine, Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men. Both operate with visual communications in principal, fashioning not only an immense entertainment value but also an innovative form to communicate established ideas through. The authority over women’s bodies is a consistent theme here, one that's reflective in particular of Margaret Atwood's work. The fight for -- and meaning of -- survival is intrinsic to any exploration of the apocalyptic. But the challenge in any artistic expression is the means to the end -- the prism through which ideas are to be communicated.
Mad Max: Fury Road swoons with a raging musicality, erupting with operatic excess. Its method is its madness. Through an embracement of the insane, the film reaches cinematic purity. Miller’s camera holds you tight, and it doesn’t let you go. It forces you into its world, rendering you a complicit onlooker.
In keeping you close to Furiosa, Miller visualizes the striving for moral redemption via Theron's embodiment of stoic determination. With an emotional center so clear within the hyperbolic surroundings, the mania never turns redundant. The danger is always real, with legitimate stakes to invest in and broad albeit sturdy character arcs to consider. Max, initially dismissive but quickly won over by this cadre of runaways, acknowledges a new depth to survival -- a new purpose. Miller is never melodramatic with such matters, and he never overplays his hand. But it’s absolutely critical to the film’s sensory success that there are wheels turning, with a level of substance to qualify its hyperrealistic style.
In keeping you close to Furiosa, Miller visualizes the striving for moral redemption via Theron's embodiment of stoic determination. With an emotional center so clear within the hyperbolic surroundings, the mania never turns redundant. The danger is always real, with legitimate stakes to invest in and broad albeit sturdy character arcs to consider. Max, initially dismissive but quickly won over by this cadre of runaways, acknowledges a new depth to survival -- a new purpose. Miller is never melodramatic with such matters, and he never overplays his hand. But it’s absolutely critical to the film’s sensory success that there are wheels turning, with a level of substance to qualify its hyperrealistic style.
Furiosa emerges as the film’s true lead, and appropriately, Theron is a magnetic presence. Add this to her list of classic roles, which between Monster and Young Adult and now Fury Road is as strikingly diverse as it is impressive. Hoult steals plenty of scenes in a fascinatingly manic performance, while Hardy’s cryptic strength provides a nice throughline from the franchise’s Gibson-led early days. But again, within Miller’s viscerally weird template must be an emotive center. Theron can go to extremes very effectively, and obviously, Fury Road is a film that would accommodate such an approach. But she doesn’t make that choice here. She’s firm yet regretful, grounded yet badass. It’s exemplary of the film’s quiet but consistent feminist streak. She internalizes the movie’s major themes relating to redemption, hope and survival, conflating the three in a deeply moving conveyance of newfound purpose.
That isn’t to take too much away from the film’s awesome -- what other word is there to describe it? -- production, which is unquestionably the greatest takeaway here. Colin Gibson’s design is intimate in its vastness, envisioning a decimated civilization with surprising realism before coloring it with stirring specificity. Every technical element comes together in Fury Road so perfectly; as helmed by Mr. Miller, the end result is simply masterful. Even in the better blockbusters of the last few years -- most of which are lighter on action -- the blow-ups and gunfire eventually get a little tiresome. The impact and intensity of Fury Road, conversely, is sustained to an astonishing degree. The narrative is so tight, and the production so full, that the film never loses its grip.
Indeed, the pacing is so swift and the running time so lean that when Fury Road abruptly concludes, it leaves a little to be desired. You come away wanting more. Miller takes you on a ride so intoxicating that while his bumpy march to the finish is admirably quick, it’s also indisputably rushed.
But that’s a good problem to have. After most blockbusters hit the two hour mark, we’re greeted with that elongated final battle sequence -- the one you never wanted in the first place. There’s no such thing in Mad Max: Fury Road. It goes, and it goes, and it goes. It excites, thrills, humors and stuns. Its sense of pacing is as confounding as the inferior spectacles to precede, and no doubt succeed, it, but for the exact opposite reason. Miller holds his artistic vision. He imbues his film with emotional stakes. He gets subtly, gracefully political. And yet, beginning to end, moment to moment, scene after scene, he’s responsible for the most explosively and unceasingly entertaining film of the year.
Grade: A