Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)
That adjective in the title is accurate. Extravagantly deranged, ear-splittingly cacophonous and entirely over-the-top: the Mad Max punk western franchise has been revived as a bizarre convoy-chase action-thriller in the post-apocalyptic desert. It’s like Grand Theft Auto revamped by Hieronymus Bosch, with a dab of Robert Rodriguez’s From Dusk Till Dawn on the side. Tom Hardy plays Max Rockatansky, the former interceptor lawman: Max is a lone wolf, a survivor of the global catastrophe that has made oil, water and bullets rare commodities. He is captured by hateful chieftain Immortan Joe (played by Mad Max veteran Hugh Keays-Byrne) and taken to his citadel, where Joe warlords it over an oppressed populace by controlling the water supply, and by bizarrely supplementing their fluid intake with industrial quantities of mother’s milk, farmed from imprisoned pregnant women. Max is fated to escape with another rebel – the one-armed Imperator Furiosa, played with glittery-eyed panache by Charlize Theron. She takes with her an improbable phalanx of scantily clothed young women, the “breeders” that the hateful patriarch wishes to make the mothers of his children: they look as if they are heading for an edgy Australian Vogue photoshoot. Max is impassive, to say the least: the nearest Hardy’s Max comes to an emotional outburst is when one of the women does something very brave while hanging on to the side of the truck. Max gives her a little smile and boyish thumbs-up. It’s the Mad Max equivalent of hugging her and declaiming: “Darling, your courage is magnificent.” Everything looks churned and charred: the heat and dryness have turned everyone mad, like Max. As someone says: “Do not become addicted to water; it will take hold of you and you will resent its absence.” It could be a poster tagline for this entirely demented film.
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