A boomerang powered by nitroglycerin (or: "It's FuriOsa, not FurioSA")

Rating: 9/10 (15 June 2015)

Early on in Mad Max: Fury Road, Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), the film's gas-mask- huffing overlord (don't call him 'Bane 2.0' or you will have Tom Hardy's permission to die) jeers at his pitiful subjects not to "become addicted to water, as it will take hold of you, and you will resent its absence". The warning may as well have extended to the film's audience to not get addicted to breathing. George Miller's retread of his apocalyptic '80s asphalt nightmare is arguably even more bonkers than its predecessors, bludgeoning viewers at such a gleefully manic pace that holding one's breath becomes as much the norm as the pounding sands of the film's eternal desert. The film, undeniably, is 'capital-M movie-making' at its most batsh*t, as Miller, finally gifted with a $150 million budget, orchestrates his apocalyptic fever-dream with frantic energy and furious passion.
The film undeniably takes some acclimatizing to. No time is wasted on extraneous exposition; after a brief, grim Tom Hardy voice-over, the viewer is immediately thrust into a world of bone-crunching fight scenes, demented –and often deformed, or otherwise grotesque - characters hooting and bellowing while attempting to kill one another, constantly covered in sand, accompanied by the 'Inception-on-twelve-cups-of-coffee' soundtrack by Tom Holkenborg, constantly blaring like a car horn from Hell (so absurdly fun that hearing it on cinema speakers is worth the admission price alone). The prospect of spending nearly two hours in this world initially seems intolerable. And this is all before anyone even starts a car.
Nonetheless, Miller's wild ride is one absolutely worth taking. Amidst the constant cacophony of overstimulation framing an almost cunningly simplistic plot ("drive that way, then drive back"), Miller has crafted a fascinatingly thought out society, and allows discrete scraps of bloodbaths over water and oil, feudal politics, and ramshackle, cultish spirituality to hit the viewer like bugs on a windshield. And, lest it seem the film had begun on too calm a note, the insane momentum steadily picks up – chase upon chase upon explosive spears and flamethrower-guitars and concussive sandstorms and blood and screaming and swallowing silver spray-paint and drums drums DRUMS.
until it finally quiets down, perfectly timed to just avoid audience heart attacks. All of a sudden, we're watching a different film. Quiet, reflective, poignant, and gently desolate – a softly heartfelt interlude of a skeletal matriarchal society (credited as consultant is Eve Ensler of Vagina Monologues fame, of all people). All of a sudden, the contrast to the blaring first half of the film is striking: this is what's at stake, and worth the spectacularly named Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron)'s mad dash to flee the dystopic wasteland with Immortan Joe's imprisoned sex slaves in tow. There is so little beauty left, the film suggests, that the few dregs of it are worth fighting for, worth giving anything for. It's an inspiring message, which, curiously enough, even extends to its antagonists: sadistic rapist overlord Joe is genuinely devastated and grieves when one of his harem, bearing his unborn child, is killed in the chase, giving his muscle-bound behemoth of a son (Nathan Jones) the chance to issue the most oddly sympathetic line in the film: "I had a baby brother, and he was perfect in every way." By the time the film ricochets to its even more haywire climax (almost exclusively filmed with practical car chases and stunts, and all the more aggressively thrilling for it), it has earned its insanity on an almost primal level, with the fate of the world feeling like it actually rests on one of the most insane car chases ever filmed.
Tom Hardy has always been at his best when punching things ferociously, muttering like an unhinged maniac, so it's impossible to imagine a more perfect piece of casting as a post-Mel Max. Theron's Furiosa easily grabs the show by the horns, not only perfectly essaying the quintessential badass, but imbuing her with more aching emotion and raw talent than anyone would ever have expected out of a Mad Max sequel(?). The film's most joyful scenes involve the two of them forming their uneasy alliance, taking turns passing guns and the steering wheel back and forth as they clamber over one another in impeccably choreographed symmetry, forced to collaborate not out of trust, but more out of 'who's more likely to kill me first'. Each of the quintet of 'wives' – particularly Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Zoë Kravitz – impress, providing crucial doses of indignant humour, courage and pathos alike. Even the normally grating Nicholas Hoult coughs up a compelling character; his Nux, a teenage Gollum desperate for validation like a kicked puppy, becomes steadily more sympathetic and likable as he evidences the film's most evident emotional arc.
In an age where too many audiences sneer at the CGI-bloated contemporary blockbuster, Fury Road provides enough of a tangible, cathartic glut of chaos and melodrama for even the most jaded to feel like they've finally watched a MOVIE again. By the time the viewer is finally left with a moment to catch their breath, they are caught between wanting to pass out as if they've just spent hours at the gym, or prepared to burst into a round of manic applause. Mad Max: Fury Road is a gloriously committed budget-bloated B-movie that is more engrossing and infectiously fun that it has any right to be. To paraphrase one of the film's most bombastically emotional moments: "WITNESS IT."
-8.5/10