There’s a moment in everyone’s post-apocalyptic life when you look at the throng of skeletal peasants desperately slurping milk siphoned from the breast of an overweight woman and think to yourself: Fuck this desert-ass shit.
The water is all but dried up. You rely on the security of your tribal overlord to protect you from the ravenous motor-clans bent on stealing your resources and murdering you for sport. And the reality is…there’s really just very little that one can do about it. Unless you’re a fucking bad-ass bitch with a War Rig.
Obviously we’re talkin’ Mad Max : Fury Road here. It’s the hyper-motion picture on everyone’s mind creating the liquid excitement dribbling down everyone’s legs. The film follows Imperiator Furiosa, and pretty much everyone else follows her. During a routine trip to collect gasoline from a neighboring city, this bad-ass whips her rig off course and says tata to the tyrannical, horse-toothed, ruler of the citadel, Immortan Joe. Never before has a left turn carried so much weight, not even Zoolander.
So Immortan Joe's all like...seriously, bitch? He goes to check his bedroom and lo and behold, Furiosa has taken his breeders which seriously sucks for him because they're pretty much straight-up supermodels and he has nastier skin than a toad-man with leprocy. So he sends out three war parties to catch the War Rig, because, realistically, that's just what you do when someone steals your bitches.
Furiosa commands her War Rig like a dragon guarding a tower filled with ridiculously hot damsels that has been tipped over, placed on wheels, painted black, heavily armored, and sprinkled with little white human accoutrements that will do literally fuckin’ anything for this bitch. When her War Boy scales the side of the vehicle to ask her what’s going on, she’s basically just like...Dude, you’re about to die for me. And he’s like…Word. The dialogue is sparse as the desert and as mystifying as the people in it.
Then there’s Max, who’s certainly mad, but more like how British people use the word. Or actually, he’s Australian mad. Like he’s a crazy mother fucker who really will not die. You know how normally when a gang of murderous war mutants throw explosives under your car while driving a hundred miles per hour through the desert you usually die? Max doesn’t die. Or how when you’re chained like a wooden mermaid on the bow of an off-road vehicle thundering towards a thousand-mile-wide sandstormtornado you usually die? Max doesn’t die. So he’s mad in that type of way.
The film tears forward with hardly any time to reflect on how worthless all other action flicks are. George Miller conducts a symphony of sights, sounds, emotions, and that gimpy guitar guy that you have definitely seen someone post a picture of, because let’s be honest, that shit is shareable.
Mad Max : Fury Road is one of those rare movie-going experiences that make you want to spray paint your mouth silver and launch yourself at a charging car while wielding an exploding spear. It is relentless. It is furious. It is mad.