Kian Henderson-Cowley’s review published on Letterboxd:
“Where must we go…we who wander this Wasteland in search of our better selves?”
I’m pretty sure it’s incriminating to rate this less than a perfect score right? Fury Road is fucking staggering. Of all the projects released by the Hollywood machine during 2015’s transition for the worse, the odds were stacked against this film the most. Everything that normally tanks a production, Fury Road was hit by and brushed off, rising higher than Immortan Joe’s fascistic dogma could ever envision. Never has a director’s creative process bled so poetically into the survivalist soul of a film before, bludgeoning the restraints of the corporate chokehold and translating the mechanics of insanity to the screen like few have ever achieved. The Road Warrior may be the film Miller always wanted to make, but Fury Road is the masterwork he was destined to deliver.
Miller’s often infrequent output turns each of his new releases into somewhat of an event. In Fury Road’s case, it’s the event of the goddamn century, as the pioneer of action filmmaking finally conceptualises his ferocious magnitude on an unprecedented scale which was previously hindered by the limitations of his heyday. Every component of elemental foreboding roars with an unquenchable rage. The desperation to retain a semblance of purity above the stench of decay is suffocating. The wasteland gains a colourful nourishment from the depletion of human occupation, and in true Miller fashion, our theatricality is prioritised alongside our compliance to an ideal. Fury Road is a muscular summation of the saga cranked up to a heavy metal rhythm, amplifying the exhilarating whiplash and intensely tender core of Mad Max’s wounded mythos.
Fury Road is a masterclass in treating your audience with intelligence. Structuring this feature length race across the magnetic dunes and maelstroms of defeat via a division of visual exposition is engrossing beyond belief, investing you in the safety of even the most minor of cogs in the fatalistic gears during those stationary respites. While it wouldn’t be remiss to suggest a more pronounced approach to some characters including Max himself, this critique only stems from a love of the character work that was already achieved. Despite Fury Road’s exhausting spectacle, you’re left wanting so much more of the intricacies which send the narrative tumbling into a tailspin. Miller imbues a circumstantial empowerment within our roster of protagonists on the run, down to the wives who represent the purity forced into captive preservation their entire lives. Fury Road is a well oiled action picture practically leaking nuance as well as making your tear ducts work overtime at the strangest moments.
As much as Hardy’s Max acts as more of a bystander than Gibson’s proactive strategist, it’s certainly nice to see Max grapple with his losses ages after Beyond Thunderdome’s moving rescue. The thought that this film would be even better with an older, grizzled Gibson was all that kept intruding my mind, but hell I’m not complaining as we were lucky enough to strike gold here! Fury Road is an epic of many shades. Freedom of spirit resisting rabid patriotism, companionship shrouded by desolation, renewed faith at the hands of a disbelieving saviour and to top it all off, Miller holds your attention hostage the entire runtime for what can only be described as the greatest action film these wistful eyes have seen thus far. Fury Road is Miller’s magnum opus, reliant on his most accomplished motorised choreography and jolting bursts of cinematography to reach the apex of his creative genius. I’m a Miller junkie through and through now. Never change you beautiful bastard! Fury Road is platinum grade cinema blown off its hinges by a dynamite hurricane.
