Blessed is she or he who watches Mad Max: Fury Road and can write coherently about it. The latest
entry in George Miller’s gasoline-fueled, apocalyptic series unfolds as a fever
dream, an extended action sequence so relentlessly kinetic that the few periods
of quiet and stillness feel downright unsettling. Even now, I’m not entirely
convinced this is a real film that I experienced while conscious, let alone one
that’s legitimately good.
If stuff like this doesn’t make you appreciate
stuntmen and women, you’re hopeless.
I tend to be skeptical of the idea
that there’s inherent value in deliberately over-the-top art. White House Down may be aware of its
stupidity, but that doesn’t make it any less stupid or more fun to watch. Fury Road, however, is not over-the-top
just for the sake of being over-the-top. As a friend of mine pointed out, it’s
highly interested in exploring the concept of madness, on both an individual
level (see: the main character’s name) and a societal level (the dystopian
community led by villain, Immortan Joe, revolves around a manipulative cult).
The first ten or so minutes put us directly in Mad Max’s head, using various
aesthetic techniques, such as rapid edits and sped-up motion, to produce a
sense of mania and disorientation. As a whole, the exquisitely grotesque
production design effectively captures a world in disarray, where there are no
rules and nothing makes sense.
At a
time when Hollywood churns out big-budget spectacles like assembly-line
products, the passion of Fury Road
feels not only refreshing but vital. Here is an action movie that unabashedly
adores action, staging scenes of destruction and mayhem with the mischievous glee
of a kid experimenting with fireworks. Explosions, shootouts and armored cars
collide in a frenzied, hypnotic ballet, set to the grand, cacophonous score of
Dutch instrumentalist Junkie XL. It’s light-years away from the self-conscious
irony of such flicks as 21 Jump Street
and Guardians of the Galaxy, which
seem faintly embarrassed by their own existence, and the slick yet soulless
tedium that plagues so many tent-poles, like The Amazing Spider-Man, whose novice director Marc Webb was clearly
more interested in making a sweet romance than the flashy extravaganza he was obligated
to deliver.
With superhero, science-fiction, fantasy and action-adventure pictures now serving as the life-blood of the film industry, it can be easy to take them for granted and forget that not too long ago, such fare was largely consigned to the margins of cinema. In many ways, Fury Road feels like a throwback to those earlier B-movies, which may have lacked their current glamour and commercial viability but were unafraid to be outrageous and provocative. Many of today’s best genre films share this instinct, celebrating rather than shirking their less reputable roots: in Gone Girl, the femme fatale and existential cynicism of classical noir coalesce with the lurid plot twists and domestic paranoia of ‘80s and ‘90s erotic thrillers; Super 8 pays homage to not only Spielbergian coming-of-age tales but also ‘70s-era monster schlock and conspiracy potboilers; the gorgeous cinematography of Black Swan only enriches the trashy horror melodrama that lies at its core; and so on. On TV as well, there’s something uniquely pleasurable about seeing The Mindy Project borrow liberally from old-school rom-coms, Boardwalk Empire indulge in pulpy violence, or Justified evoke Western tropes, particularly in its triumphant final season.
Who cares if it’s cliché? This shot is straight-up
breathtaking.
Despite achieving mainstream
popularity, genre films still struggle to be taken seriously. Critics routinely
dismiss them as shallow, mindless drivel manufactured to placate easily
distracted juvenile audiences, bemoaning the supposed dearth of movies “for
grown-ups”. In the age of Transformers,
it’s tempting to succumb to such skepticism and fatigue. Yet when done properly,
not only are genre movies just as capable of addressing mature, relevant
subjects as highbrow dramas, but they can also be, in some cases, specially
qualified as vehicles for moral, political and social commentary, uninhibited
by the constraints of realism and keenly aware of the way myths and
storytelling shape human experience.
In an ideal world, Lornette Mason would be as iconic
an action heroine as Sarah Connor and Ellen Ripley.
For its part, Fury
Road uses its escapist trappings to convey a surprisingly bold female
empowerment fantasy. While its feminist credentials should not be overstated,
its take on misogyny and gender relations rather simplistic, the film nonetheless
packs a potent punch, as demonstrated by the fact that a high-profile
contingent of MRAs (aka Men’s Rights Assholes) actually called
for a boycott of it. As pathetic as it sounds, for such a pure, aggressive
action movie like this to a) include female characters of varying races and
ages who make meaningful contributions to the central plot and b) treat women like
a worthwhile audience without pandering to them is, in itself, a radical act. Whether
the industry takes note remains to be seen (history and the trailers that
preceded my screening do not provide much cause for optimism), but either way, Fury Road is blockbuster filmmaking at
its most thrilling. It puts the rest of Hollywood to shame.
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