Mad Max: Fury Road (George Miller. 2015)

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As far as I can make out, Mad Max seems to be the result of George Miller, 150 million dollars and nothing to consume but a copious amount of amphetamines. It’s heady, brash, gigantic and absolutely bonkers.

Normally, a reboot of a gloriously stupid 80s film is serious and restrained. As gritty reboots go, Tom Hardy’s Max should be in a post-apocalyptic world deadened by famine and disease. He should be weak and sad, his enemies tired and lost. Every conversation should be a deeply philosophical dialogue helping to understand the meaning of insanity. However, this is not the case. Like a full on indulgence in to the world of 80s cult cinema, everything about Fury Road is joyously ridiculous. Dialogue is irrelevant and the word “Mad” is effectively the plot. There’s nipple clamps, a car chase (a 90 minute one), suicidal warriors, a disease ridden dictator, a rogue warrior with a prosthetic arm, kidnapped maidens and stupid monster truck muscle cars. Christ, there’s even a guy suspended on bungee cord that plays a flamethrower guitar. Good god it’s good fun.

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