Mad Max: Fury Road has been getting a lot of praise and discussion and I’m not about to miss the doof wagon on that one. Mad Max made me want to go buy a dirt bike and ride around the desert with badass old ladies. Mad Max made me want to trade my car in for a fucking war rig (or at least a stick shift) and blast heavy metal.
Mad Max made me want to light some shit on fire. I want to go smash the motherfucking patriarchy with a baseball bat. I want to eat glass and grin like Ed Norton in Fight Club so you could see exactly how many fucks I don’t give. I want to spray paint “LONG LIVE FURIOSA” all over my neighborhood and get a Vuvalani tattoo that says “One man, one bullet.” And you know what? I’m getting the tattoo.
Mostly, Mad Max made me want to see Mad Max again as soon as possible.
I spent the first half of the movie holding my breath, got a little air at the midpoint and didn’t breathe again until the credits rolled. The second time I saw the movie, although I obviously knew what was going to happen, I dug my fingernails so deep into my palm that I had little half moons in my hand for the rest of the evening. In short, it’s an exhilarating movie. Miller doesn’t waste our time with things like dialogue or exposition. Everything you see means something, but good luck figuring it all out because in the meantime you’re the target of a full scale sensory assault that will leave your mouth as dry as the godforsaken post-apocalyptic desert.
I’ve always loved the spectacle of action movies. I love seeing shit get blown up, I love car chases, gunfights. I watch the Machete movies with glee because of the unapologetic mayhem. Being a lover of gunfights and fistfights might make me sound like an Amy Dunne “cool girl,” but that’s not the reality.
In fact, one of the most difficult things about loving the spectacle is ignoring the macho-boy, hyper-masculine, damsel-in-distress bullshit that comes with it. There are notable exceptions, of course, but the script for women is pretty consistent: you can be the reason the male protagonist is on the warpath, or you can look hot while you high kick. That’s it. That’s what you get.
Every so often we’ll toss you a Ripley or a Leeloo, but don’t get used to it and don’t expect too many other chicks around. Because these movies are for MEN. Straight, tough, manly men who don’t want to spend their time looking at women.
There’s a lot of discussion about whether this is a feminist film and I don’t really want to get into that (though the answer is yes). It is so rare for me to watch a film and see a woman who captures the warrior spirit. A woman who clicks with the part of me that served in the USMC and trained for war.
Women veterans are all but invisible in reality and popular culture likes to ignore their fantastical counterparts despite the fact that some of the earliest mythological representations of battle and war were women. We don’t get to see ourselves. Little girls who might want to do what we did don’t get to see women firefighters, war fighters, revolutionaries, dragon slayers, or war-rig driving Imperators with a band of bad ass dirt-biking grannies.
Mad Max: Fury Road says, “Fuck all that.” It says, “Here are a ton of women ready to kick ass and take names.” It says, “Even traditionally feminine, gorgeous women can have agency and lead revolutions and fight for themselves.”
It says, “Not all women are alike so here are a bunch of them!” Furiosa, The Vuvalini, the Wives – all very different women. All individuals. All badass in their own, unique ways – and all necessary to everyone under the rule of the Citadel. This is a movie where a woman like me can walk out with a hundred different traits I relate to in my head. Because we got more than one woman.
The women are so prevalent, and so necessary to the plot, many are calling Max Furiosa’s sidekick. I don’t think I’d go that far. I think the idea of female led action is so foreign that we see Furiosa kicking ass and giving orders and can’t see that Max is her equal. They both have strengths and weaknesses and the only reason a two-hour long action-packed-sensory-fucked-loud-explodey-holy-shit-mind-fuck-car-chase action movie works is that when Max is down, Furiosa takes the lead, and when Furiosa is hanging from the bottom of the war rig making repairs, Max takes the lead. Just because Max is comfortable standing in for a sniper stand while Furiosa takes a shot doesn’t make him a sidekick. In real-life, we don’t get sidekicks. We get members on our team.
As the Wives understand when Nux is discovered beaten and discouraged on their vehicle, it doesn’t matter if the team member is a man or woman. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done in the past. All that matters is that if they’ve survived this long in a post-apocalyptic waste land, they’re probably pretty tough – so are they are our side? If the answer is yes, they ride together, they fight together, and yes, they die together. And if one of them isn’t back in time to get back on the road? He accepts that you have to keep going anyway.
That is what makes this movie so fucking kick ass. As Miller drags us through the desert with ominous drums and electric-flame-throwing guitars he throws the story at us while we dodge spikes, flying chains, polecats with exploding spears, and risk excitement induced heart attack. Then he throws plot, character arcs and backstory at us, daring us to ignore it all in favor of the next big car crash. We can suspend our disbelief because our lead characters are varied enough in personality that they can’t be dismissed as archetypes and the effects are, for the most part, real.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a tattoo to plan and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a piece of glass stuck in my teeth.
