The thing about nostalgia is, when it hits, it hits hard. In the case of Mad Max: Fury Road, directed by the series' sole author, auteur and authority, George Miller, the longing sense of the past gets hammered by filmmaking trends of the present. At its current trajectory, as Mad Max franchise's "soft reboot", I pray to God that it bypasses the looming cinematic insipidness of the future.
Fury Road is a masterwork of exposition-less, story-less filmmaking. I would call it plot-less, however, the buck screeches to a screaming stop right before this.
The details, though, lie in the all-too-brief screenplay structure – and the hundred or so expressions of anger and aghast and the billion or so vehicular explosions that surround them. I'm being sarcastic with the numbers, but by the time Fury Road ends, one does leave the cinema with the feeling of being pounded and run over by a 15 mega-ton truck. The sensation of being road-kill isn't that bad at all, considering the insane amount of growling menace Miller puts into the onslaught.
So much of Fury Road is run on explosions and the grinding and the screeching of tires, that one forgets what it's basically about: Max (once played by Mel Gibson, now with bare grunts and gasps by Tom Hardy) is a lone "road warrior", who just wants to survive in the post-apocalyptic world of tomorrow. Like most future landscapes, the world is barren, desolate and hostile in a punk rock-ish way of a 80’s B-movie.
In his first frames, a long shot of the far horizon, has Max off-centre, as he chews up a two-headed lizard (deliberately 3D and CG) – this, of course, shows his desperate will to live; a tenacity he shows time and again on-screen. A few minutes later, Max is captured literally as a cattle, and used as a "blood bag" – a transfusion source for Immortan Joe's "war-boys", who plunder away in