Not a new body but an old corpse given new life, MAD MAX:Fury Road is the transfused return to the fierce blast of Road Warrior days. While the swagger of Mel is reborn in Charlize Theron to lesser effect (she's a better shot), New Max Hardy creates another character separate from the Gibson cocktail of blunt gamey charm, his new embodiment revels in self-hypnosis. Gone is the gambler who smirked when given one more chance to survive (though only he sees the way out, to the audience he's finished, old Max reveled in nihilistic pride). He only seemed suicidal. Hardy instead looks intimidated when he has to read lines, though he's mastered the physical aspects fine. His one chance at redemption is smashed when he bungles telling Theron's Furiosa his name. He mumbles it like he's in love, but he's really more concerned she'll die. (Yes, movies are made pantheonic or not at these little moments of discovery). The only time he apes Mel well is when he sets out in a blue mist to confront a hotrod on tank tracks following them. And that bit of Mad Max is left offscreen, as if we, steeped in the Mel Max of yore have to imagine a leather clad Gibson trapping the machine and slaughtering its occupants. It's the summer of 1982 all over again except off camera, and only for a moment. The thing to remember is all that madness in Road Warrior's 1982 kinetic highway slaughter was done-in camera, trapped by celluloid. Here, what's really there and what isn't is arbitrary, decided not all by pre-planning, but by Miller's choices and the limits imposed by rendering cash.
Miller, for all his digital knowhow, still has the mind born in the optics of filmstock. The movie's gripping qualities come from his coarse, non-digital panache with tighter lenses that toggle the mayhem inside the cabs and their adjacent threats. It's throwback disarray that had to be solved on the KEM, then the AVID and now the render. Not letting go of his shooting style gives the audience a taste of what kinematics was. He's in there somewhere between the lavish 3-D effects he's labored over and the blunt kinetics he shot on location. First conceived as an animated film, Fury Road drifted into live-action probably out of budgetary necessity. That's where the flashes of inspiration come from, from Miller's new anime mad-man side. The photographic stuff is pulpier, like a bright graphic novel. It has a flatness the landscape effects don't. It's at these moments you forget you're looking at binary bits up there (see above, the war rig annoited by light); you can almost sense the chemistry once tasted by eyesight. A must see... anyway, and only in 3-D.
Seymour Hersh's detailed autopsy of the official myth of the death of Bin Laden, if true, dissolves the common view: a brilliant piece of detective work aided by torture - ending with an adernaline soaked flurry of early morning airborne gunmen. Instead in Hersh's account there are no stacks of hard drives and techies, just a few diaries. No courier to lead them back to the compound. All that hardnosed analysis and groundwork was an illusion in the CIA's myth. In his telling, there wasn't even a risk for the Blackhawks crossing the border from Afghanistann. UBL's sale was approved by Pakistan Intelligence and given wide berth, including team passage across radar soaked areas. In Abbattobad, Bin Laden was carefully watched, and wasn't allowed to lead any underground. The city is, after all, the intelligence community's second residential city. And now, it seems preposterous to think the mastermind of Al-Queda would hole up in a military elite locale like Abbattobad: in Hersh's narration, the city gave him up. On the night of the raid, the neighborhood Bin Laden resided in had its power shut off, surrounded by families tied to the inteligence and military academies. Obviously Bin Laden would never have chosen to be here. Nor was he even a moving target. According to Hersh, Bin Laden was no longer spry, but a man in bad shape healthwise. The strangest of all is that Bin Laden was sold by a walk-in to the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad, and that his presence, though never verified visually, was easily proven from DNA samples by a team of American investigators housed in-country for the op. Price for the intel? 25 million reward fee and the op's cost. And a cover story was planned, pinning Bin Laden to the Hindu Kush mountains. Scheduled to emerge the week after. Problem? The copter crashed, and was potentially ruinous to the cover story. So Obama rolled the dice and got reelected.
With Hersh's story more than likely plausible, running through Zero Dark-Thirty means living inside a CIA fantasy version of it. One concocted, even triangulated through two ex-SEAL accounts of the raid. The weirdest part would be the alternate version that comes out about now, if the Blackhawk had never bonked. Hersh would be denouncing a far more effective story, set in a remote, empty area of mountains, and telling us about UBL's Abbatobad compound, which would sound ludicrous and absurd. And at that point, it would be long erased by bulldozer.
Here the myth is far less believable. And makes us wonder, how did we even start believing the story of a master terrorist, hiding in plain sight, never viewed.
footnote: The guards surrounding Bin Laden were ISI (Pakistani), and were there 24/7. They were told once they heard the roters coming to split. Bin Laden was left unarmed for the raid.
As a mythology, the Marvel Universe is theraputic. It's here to help us (the U.S.) process the aftermath of 9-11 and the subsequent wars we sought vengeance through. Nobody really misses the point with a group of security obsessed, tight-wearing superheroes proclaiming themselves "Avengers." What are they avenging?
In mythology, murder and destruction are taboos made sacred by the sacrifices of the protagonist: with the primary scarifice being isolation. Nolan's Batman is the only comic book character in motion who enacts this violence as ritual. He is a loner by nature and though he's rescued by sleight of hand by the end of Rises, we believe he dies alone. The Marvel Universe, however, has its lead serial Iron Man announce his identity as a mission statement. These heroes aren't going to hide, nor will they brood too much. M.U. insists on blending 1950s values of family (Guardians and Avengers, Parkers vs. the Osbornes) and sex-roles with taboo carnage and death so that none of the outcomes can be read as sacred. Instead a false family is born, a criminal family not unlike other families that practice violence in myth (like the Corleones). They are somewhat empty tales, usually ignoring the psychic role violence plays, and so they erase the sensations of collective responsibilities from audience minds. Why are they here suddenly, and why are they so successful? The films are essentially mental degaussers that absolve resposibilities for the carnage we've turned loose on the world under the guise of liberating dictatorships in the past 15 years. We are the empire, share this moniker with the other world powers. We practice warfare without sanction, kill chosen by drone. And we seem to be unaware of how this is perceived on the world-stage. And the Marvel Universe might help us to remain blind to our self image. Certainly the last Avengers was a 'world-stage' battle.
Time for new mythologies before it's too late.
Some back-up: Damien Straker's Ultron review http://www.impulsegamer.com/avengers-age-of-ultron-3d-film-review/
A little bit Matrix a little more Bioshock goes on rails with a semi-global cast veering Wes Anderson, the actors' ironic satire of white culture gets led by a white hero. Most of the hero prompting-speechifying drags, but Swinton's kneeling about the sacred engine's water intake gets the right weirdness. Eco-planning gets mechanized while Poseidon Adventure meets Supertrain in the unconscious. In the age of the still-born blockbuster, an E for effort.
This visual overload is a space opera derived from a 1977 Manga of the same name. The Gaia scenes and their back stories are dead weight, but the majority of the film is next-level optics and depth construction. 2 hours best seen on a projection screen. In some cases, CGI adds to characterization.
Our western media fails to comprehend the vast possibilities. Only the East knows what's coming...
One of the central conflicts of all humanity is the nature of meaning. Not only does it exist, but if it does, how does it come about? And how can it be real as long as myth exists? Are they compatible. Now Jerry Fodor and Zenon Pylyshyn have, without any computational proof, decided it does not exist: "...meaning, like the Loch Ness monster, is a myth." Here is an on-line draft of their book: http://ruccs.rutgers.edu/faculty/pylyshyn/NaturalizedReference/OLD_Vers_WholeBookJF%26ZP_3-12-2013.pdf
This groomed tomboy of a film has a conceptual framework trapped in 50s ideologies (as Guardians of the Galaxy traps itself in the 80s) coupled to a digital techo-necrophilia amped for 12 second attention spans. It flows rhythmically.
The effect is a synthetic blockbuster pooling post-modern access to primal race-war. We laugh at it through culture schlock like this, but the ethnic conflict finds its calling in cinema. One was designed here stateside during the early years of the film industry, though Birth of a Nation is a motion-picture calling-card of bad repute, countless one-reelers preceding it were laced in ethnic slant. There in 1915 Griffith (born in Kentucky where Vaughn's climax erupts) stared seriously into his crystal-ball 1860s and found a socio-political nightmare to scare audiences into the first features. Here in 2015 Vaughn cryptically evokes the 1950s merged with British winking into the present. Both netherworlds conjuring anything goes. Here cameras access the most prescient things and happenings, excitably playing sputtering guide to all that Vaughn can conduct. Sure better card tricks, but in a manner of filmmaking that does your thinking for you: a visually straight-no-chaser. Though technically brilliant, the effect is muted. Like Herbert Ross's Pennies From Heaven, which sent up musicals by going hard R and killing its hero, Vaughn takes Bond into hard R violence to make 'fun' of it gleefully. Hows about that for laughs. We need severed limbs and spraying blood to get a rise out of the crowd. Lots of gags erupt, but they're mostly loops. The wit of the Airplane movies played somber. No doubt it's strange and clever and demented the way 5-10 beers are. Here though, the hangover is forgetting the ploys, the baits, the slicing. Deciphering the plot is not part of the visual essence, the vital stuff is spoken, in the usual threats and promises. A must see for anyone interested in what might really be layered into here with the right story, techniques in search of mastery...
Big Q: Why isn't this a videogame? It would make 10x the amount it's going to make in theaters.