The Cars That Ate Paris (1974)

There’s something primal about ’70s “Ozploitation.” Civilization gone to ruin. The gist quandary: “We don’t belong here.” Yes, “Mad Max” is king. But it might not have existed without first “The Cars That Ate Paris.” Australia. Not France. Peter Weir, in his first feature, opens on a hokey couple out for a drive –- shot TV commercial style –- before a blown tire out sends the pair down a hill to their death. Roll opening credits. We settle on two scraggily brothers in the same pickle: A sudden crash leaves only one alive. Or so Weir says. I saw no body. “Cars” evades answers. It’s daft, and throws curve balls with no explanation. Paris – patchwork ugly -- thrives on car parts, and the crash survivors end up as citizens, or mute guinea pigs. It’s sick stuff. Drills to heads. Rice Krispie boxes for faces. A hero so unassuming he can’t comb his hair. The town’s at war with its youth -– many of them likely children of dead motorists –- and a final battle with weaponized autos with a spiked Bug, I swear lays the road for “Max.” A nation of rejects. The Aboriginal race crushed. Madness is norm. This film shocks. A