The Road Warrior, a.k.a. Mad Max 2 (1981)

Still on a high from “Mad Max: Fury Road,” I caught George Miller’s “The Road Warrior” on TV, my first viewing in maybe two decades. Here, the world is spiraling toward the wasteland seen in “Beyond Thunderdome,” and the greatest commodity again is fuel. The only human need is to get the hell out to someplace else. Max –- still Mel Gibson, a remarkable actor of barely hidden rage –- reluctantly joins forces with a ragtag group of survivors who run a makeshift oil rig in the Outback desert, and are under attack from rampaging looters. Max drives the action here, figuratively and literally, as he takes the wheel of car and bus. The ending is too abrupt, as if money ran out, but the action is intense even if paling in comparison to the new film. That’s OK. Tech constraints. Imagine if Miller has today’s digital cameras 34 years ago. A-

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

(EDITED 20 May 2015. A second viewing has me even more enthralled with this movie. But some a huge correction to the below: It is without doubt the same Max Rockatansky in this film as Mel Gibson played. That's clear up front, and elsewhere. Which makes the lead of Charlize Theron's road Warrior Trucker all the more amazing. And the first appearance of The Wives is one of the great rug pulls of modern cinema. The first shot seems contrived and sexist, wet ladies in the desert, wearing gauze, maybe. College guys next to me whistled. Within moments they cringed and winced at the rage these ladies held. That's powerful film-making. I never touched on the wild religious implications of the film, the sick promise of Immortan Joe to his followers that if they die for him, Valhalla (heaven) awaits. Massive part of the story. It hits current wars of this day. Just epic. I don't know George Miller, only a few months younger my father, pulled this off. He has just crushed every young filmmaker working today. Epic. That certain Jedi film coming out later this year has a huge mountain to climb. A sequel.reboot has just set a new standard for action films, and how woman are to be seen on screen. Forever. And the energy on screen -- the feeling that anything can happen -- i just have to applaud.)


Days on, I’m still pumped with awe. I don’t know where to begin or if I’ll ever get everything I feel right now. “Mad Max: Fury Road” is the most daring, subversive summer action film to hit cinemas in years. God love George Miller. 

This is THE film we need now. In its jaw-dropping spectacle. Its energy. Its anger.

From trailers and posters galore, we expect rising Hollywood star Tom Hardy (“The DarkKnight Rises”) to take on the iconic Australian role of ex-cop Max Rockatansky played frighteningly wild-eyed, fierece by Mel Gibson 40 odd years ago and run with it. 

Hero. Savior. Bad ass driver and gunslinger. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

During a frenzied pre-credits opening salvo, hero Max is taken hostage, bound and masked, and in drops the true lead of this film -- the new Road Warrior for our time -- Charlize Theron as Imperator Furiosa. One-armed, armed, and driving a steam-punk tractor trailer straight out of hell and into freedom. Or hope. Or any place, but from where she came. 

This is an action film with women at the core. Not since “Alien” have we seen such a display. Theron makes Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley seem tame. Here, strong, blood, divisive, kick-ass women in a near-future world take back control of their lives and their world -- killed by men -- with ferocious force. Max has to keep up. This could have been called “Mad Women.” (Unlike “Alien,” Miller uses scant clothing to again burn genre.)

And the action -– the entire film is one chase with so little dialogue, you begin to forget to question if anyone can talk – has no peer. In an age where whole hours of something like “Avengers: Age of Ultron” is wall-to-wall CGI and impersonal robots and immortal heroes, Miller drops in real vehicles and teams of stuntmen and women and smashes everything together decadent glee. He smashes trucks through cars. Drops bikes off mountains. Throws tanks into a tornado, and lets them fall. He kills characters we have instantly fallen in love with minutes ago. 

Every frame of “Fury” is madness, glorious madness that feels as alive and pulsing as the first “Mad Max” in 1979, a film that plays like it had to be made or its director –- Miller –- might lose his f’n mind. 

(This also recalls the gonzo mad independent Australian films of the 1970s, such as “The Cars that Ate Paris,” where narrative coherence is slain by glorious visual chaos. And, yes, John Seale’s digital, handheld cinematography is Oscar worthy, inches from bloodied cheeks and oil-spewing motors. Also Oscar worthy: Nicholas Holt, breaking out from boring X-Men and childish movie star roles to play a crazed man riddled with tumors and a desire to die horrifically, so he can be reborn whole.) 

Before I get ahead of myself: We are back in the post-nuclear apocalypse desert of the “Road Warrior” and “Thunderdome,” although I don’t think “Fury” is exactly a sequel or a reboot from the previous films. It’s never specifically said that this Max is the same Max of the previous trilogy. His flashbacks -– violent, haunted acid trips of a man long past sanity -– match nothing told before. Miller has us work for info. He drops us in the middle of the action and makes us chase down the back stories, the detailed horrors of this world. 

One viewing is not enough. Furiosa’s task at the start of the film is to steal gasoline for her master, Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne, who played the villain in “Mad Max,” but a fully different character). Joe is an obese tumor-stricken old man wearing a plastic muscle suit that bulks him to Hulk-size, with a horrifying oxygen mask of plastic, rubber, and animal teeth for a face. He is the leader of a desert cult that worships him as a god, and as he controls all water, food, fuel, and the blood supply, he will not be questioned. 

He also keeps five young women as sex slaves to breed his children. It is they who are Furiosa’s cargo as the film opens, she defying the order to steal petro as she carries these women to the “green place” of her lost youth. Within Joe’s tower cave, his “wives” have scrawled defiant phrases: “We are not your property!” 

The chase is set when Joe decides otherwise and sets out to get his “women” back, no matter who he has to kill to do so. (Even his underlings question his sanity.) That the “wives” are introduced as one-note barely-dressed supermodels is a tantalizing FU from Miller and his writers. In the sands, away from men, finding more women warriors and mentors, these young “hotties” explode in murderous revolt. Max can barely keep up. 

Oscar winner Theron rules the film with quiet intensity. Our action star for 2015. Hardy is her acting equal as a man lost and in desperate need of saving by these women before he loses his last thread of humanity. Epic does not do “Fury” justice. It is vital viewing as action spectacle and comment on our sexist age. 

I can’t think of another Hollywood summer film that has so upended my expectations to glorious effect. Miller has just writ the end of our male-dominated Marvel and D.C. summer era. Those films are made by business. This was made by burning need. A+

Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975)

Peter Weir’s “Picnic at Hanging Rock” is a mystery with no answer. It’s 1900 Australia and a group of girls from an elite finishing school leave for a picnic at Hanging Rock, a chunk of mountain with a near-supernatural magnetism. It looms as a god, setting visitors in a daze. Watches stop. People sleep. Four girls wonder for no reason but curiosity. Three disappear, one returns panicked. The vanished girls drop the perfect façade of the school and town into hysteria, order and etiquette shattering. People don’t fear the girls’ deaths, they fear their “violation.” The unknown expands. Weir uses glowing cinematography and pan-flute music to portray the perfection that we all desire to build us for the fall. Life is unanswerable, we cannot escape it reciting poetry or meeting dinner time. The only innocent free girl throws herself to death. The grand head mistress (Rachel Roberts) loses her glory to reality, her fate leads back to that Rock. Honestly, “Picnic” is perfect, as defined as what we are not shown, by as what we are. It is art that cannot be explained or crunched into a few sentences, it must be seen. On repeat. Endlessly fascinating. A+

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

Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)

It’s the future, so bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful, terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob Schneider in the sidekick role. 

(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)

Is “Dredd” better? By far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad, masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.

Anyway, Dredd (Karl Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell. As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag, thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others. Why are there mutants popping around? No idea. 

Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless, shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.

If One Man Against an War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid” is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.

This has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a third film. C 

“Mad Max” I can watch endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars. Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.

Whole sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -– especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary fanatical, is that acting? A-

Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994)

The Australian-made “Priscilla” shoves the alpha-male road–trip flick formula in a glittering dress, high heel shoes, and caked-on eyeliner, shimmying ass to Abba every mile of the way. There be drag queens, folks, and the leads of this comedy-drama-farce have the keys and wheel. No back of the bus for them. Our queens are played by Hugo Weaving (pre-“Matrix”) and Guy Pearce (pre-“Memento”) and – in a career-high performance -- Terence Stamp. Yes. Priscilla is the bus, btw. Weaving and Pearce play gay men who cross dress, the former direly sensitive, the latter flaming to supernova. Stamp is a “tranny,” a man who only found herself post-surgery, and he digs miles under the earth, showing still-visible pain and now wire-thin contentment. The plot has trio on their way from Sidney to a rural resort to perform a glam show at a hotel owned by Hugo’s long-separated wife, and along the way they meet prejudice and acceptance. “Priscilla,” bus and movie, hits ditches and blows its engine, especially in stereotyping Asian women and country folk, but the majority of film is dressed in love and acceptance that crushes hates and judgments. The soundtrack really is royally genius. A-

Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole (2010)

“Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole” is one of the best-looking animated tales I have ever seen: Golden hues of sunlight abound, and our owl heroes and villains at the center of this fantasy adventure are computer-animated with such jaw-dropping precision that the details of feathers and the glint of eyes make one stare with childish glee. But “Legend” is a wash, a gorgeous body with an empty soul. The story is based on a series of books, so far be it for me to proclaim this a rip-off of “Star Wars” and “Chronicles of Narnia,” but I’ll do it anyway, as our tale follows two brother owls (Jim Sturgess and Ryan Kwanten on voices) who fall into the clutches of an evil owl queen, with one sibling summiting to her will, and the other escaping to join a heroic rebel alliance. Bonus Lucas points: There’s a wise old warrior owl and an evil metal-masked owl. They duel. For all of director Zack Snyder’s (“300”) visual delights, I was constantly trying to sort out which owl was which, especially during a climatic aerial fight that left me squawking “Hoo?” “Hoo?” “Who!?!” Thankfully not out loud. C+

The Proposition (2006)

Nick Cave – a god of soul-wracking rock n’ roll from Down Under – writes a nightmarish 1880s Australian Outback take on “Heart of Darkness” with “The Proposition.” This is a savagely violent film about a redemptive killer named Charlie Burns (Guy Pearce) sent on a long journey to kill his older, gang/cult-forming brother (Danny Houston) in order to save his younger sibling (Richard Wilson) from execution. The man who sends Charlie on the journey is a local police captain (Ray Winstone) who is determined to tame the desert land he barely contemplates. The captain’s young wife (Emily Watson) is slowly losing her senses. John Hillcoat’s hit is a brilliant film, a tale of an evil man who has hit bottom and must kill his own blood to find a sliver of redemption. It’s no small note that the Europeans here declare the Aboriginal inhabitants as savages and pulverize the population with ungodly precision. This is a grisly world indeed. A jailhouse whipping of the naïve Burns boy rivals any scene in “The Passion of the Christ.” Pearce's (“L.A. Confidential”) career has never matched his talents, but this film does. A

Romper Stomper (1993)

“Romper Stomper” put Russell Crowe on the world stage. He plays Hando, a fireball of unending menace, a neo-Nazi skinhead with a devastating temper and raw sexual power. He is the leader of a ragtag pack of Melbourne racists -- all jobless, essentially homeless, stealing all that they own, and coming and going in a beat-up old clunker car, packed in like sardines. They blast hate music celebrating the glory of their white European heritage all the while. It’s a dark, uneasy satire: These thugs are not even self-aware. (Hando is fully in the know, he just doesn’t care.) Director/writer Geoffrey Wright doesn’t get all preachy on us, he doesn’t have to. Hando’s best mate is Davey (Daniel Pollock), a young man tiring of his thug life, and the arrival of a fiery, lost red head (Jacqueline McKenzie) is just the right push for the men to break apart. This is a violent and unflinching drama that loses its punch only once -- a scene where a young boy is shot. (The scene is handled badly, and feels overly faked.) Crowe, eyes ablaze, cuts through every other actor and set piece like a molten sword of hate. A