Movie Review: "Mad Max: Fury Road" (George Miller, 2015)

FURIOUS GEORGE by Mo Shaunette

Above: Charlize Theron, on the run as Furiosa in Mr. Miller's new movie. Photo ©Warner Bros. Pictures

“Mad Max” is one of those odd cult franchises that both rocketed its director to fame allowed said director to craft and develop their own style (similar to Sam Raimi’s “Evil Dead” trilogy or Edgar Wright’s sitcom “Spaced”).  Now, with nostalgia properties in vogue, it’s no surprise that “Max” has returned to cinemas; what is surprising is that original series creator George Miller has returned to write and direct thirty years after the last film.  And the biggest twist of all?  Just how god-dang GOOD “Mad Max: Fury Road” has turned out to be.

“Fury Road” returns us to Mr. Miller’s post-apocalyptic Australia, where a worldwide oil shortage has led to the collapse of civilization and the rise of marauders who rule their domains with homemade body armor and tricked-out cars.  Former cop Max Rockatansky (Tom Hardy, taking over for Mel Gibson) is captured by one such band; they take him to their citadel on the same day their leader, the cultish Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), dispatches a convoy led by Furiosa (Charlize Theron) to retrieve gas from a neighboring settlement.  However, Furiosa is smuggling some precious “cargo”: Joe’s harem of breeder wives, who she’s transporting to a utopian region known only as “the Green Place.”

Thus begins a chase across wastelands, with Immortan Joe-worshipper Nux (Nicholas Hoult) dragging Max along for a steady supply of type-O blood.  It’s an adventure that yields some solid acting.  Mr. Hardy plays a livelier, more enthused Max than Mr. Gibson did and Ms. Theron anchors the film with righteous fury and genuine compassion.  By contrast, Mr. Keays-Byrne isn’t quite as lively as he way in the first “Max” movie (in which he played the evil “Toecutter”), but he still makes Immortan Joe a menacing presence.  Nicholas Hoult has a slightly showier role as Nux, but he makes the most of it, bringing empathy and fun that harkens back to great series hams like Bruce Spence and Vernon Wells.

Still, the real star of the show is George Miller.  “Fury Road” is essentially one long chase sequence, with Furiosa’s war rig ceaselessly pursued and viciously engaged by Joe’s ever-encroaching army.  It’s a journey driven by its visual style—the colors are vibrant (with the orange of the limitless desert providing a nice counterbalance to the black of the cars and the white body paint of Joe’s War Boys) and the fighting is brutally intense, suggesting that Mr. Miller was desperate to outdo the climactic chase from “The Road Warrior” (spoiler alert: he succeeds).  What’s more, weird visuals fly by with little-to-no explanation.  But this is hardly problematic.  Questions such as, “Why does Joe’s army include a flame-throwing heavy metal guitarist?” should be answered thusly: because it’s cool, that’s why!

That said, cool is only half of it.  “Fury Road” also happens to be a feminist movie, which is partly why the film has been attacked by the men's rights activist blogger Aaron Clarey, who declared that Hollywood suckered audiences and turned a “guy movie” into a “feminist lecture.”  I won’t link Mr. Clarey’s article here, not only because I think that people who say such things are best left ignored and laughed at, but because I think that the feminism of “Fury Road” is one of its greatest attributes.

Why?  Because there’s something beautiful not only about Furiosa’s fight to rescue Joe’s wives from servitude and slavery, but the wives’ spirit of defiance.  Their mantra (“We are not things!”) is not only plastered on the walls of their home, but spat directly at Joe when he claims the unborn child of Angharad (Rosie Huntington-Whiteley) as his property.  This is evidence of the input of Eve Ensler (the feminist writer and activist who Mr. Miller consulted on the subject of sex slavery and its survivors) and the reason why “Fury Road” transforms into something wholly unexpected—an action movie about young women reclaiming their personhood and agency.

In a genre that’s almost completely dominated by men, that’s a welcome change of pace. Yet I don’t think “Fury Road” is perfect. To their detriment, the “Mad Max” movies have often relegated story and character development to the back seat, while shoving spectacle gleefully into the front.  And while “Fury Road” does have engaging characters, its focus remains on its near-endless car chases, many of which toe the line of going on too long.  True, Mr. Miller doesn’t egregiously misuse screen time the way Peter Jackson did with his “Hobbit” movies, but viewers with less patience for fast cars and dusty explosions may find themselves getting antsy.

Still, “Mad Max: Fury Road” is a triumph—a rip-roaring rampage that acts as a vehicle (no pun intended) for its director, his crew, and his cast to show off what they can do.  It’s an absolute ball and probably the best action movie you’ll see this year.  Check it out.

Movie Review: "While We're Young" (Noah Baumbach, 2015)

WAR OF THE HIPSTERS by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Naomi Watts and Ben Stiller as suffering (and insufferable) Baumbach creations.  Photo ©A24 Films.

What to say of “While We’re Young”?  To begin with, it is a plainly-told dramedy of manners; it casts its sneering spotlight on preening, philosophizing New Yorkers; and it glances at the world (read: twenty-first century America) with a snarl that tastes about as pleasant as unrefrigerated grapefruit juice.  It is, in other words, a typical Noah Baumbach movie.

            Twice, Mr. Baumbach has co-written movies with Wes Anderson (namely “Fantastic Mr. Fox” and “The Life Aquatic”), seeming at ease on that filmmaker’s genial Ferris wheel of quirk.  But directing solo, Mr. Baumbach is a creator of astonishingly bitter visions.  Had another auteur made “The Squid and the Whale,” divorcee Bernard Berkman (Jeff Daniels) might have re-earned his place next his sons and his wife; Mr. Baumbach’s idea of closure was to abandon the guy in a hospital bed.

            “While We’re Young” is not quite so bitter.  It’s about a meandering Manhattan couple, Josh (Ben Stiller) and Cornelia (Naomi Watts), both of whom go gaga-giddy over the smirking youngsters Jamie and Darby (Adam Driver and Amanda Seyfriend).  None of these people transcend their archetypal trappings; as Josh waxes rhapsodic about Jamie and Darby, it becomes clear that he is little more than a mouthpiece for Mr. Baumbach to belt out his thoughts on the proverbial “younger generation.”  “They’re so engaged!” Josh crows.  You don’t say.

            And what are Jamie and Darby engaged with?  Movies, movies, movies.  Oh sure, Darby makes ice cream (“She makes ice cream!” Josh helpfully informs us), but their twin energies beam towards Jamie’s documentarian aspirations.  Josh directs documentaries too, and it doesn’t take too many reels for him to suspect that Jamie might be more interested in networking than making a meaningful connection.  But so infectious is Jamie’s joie de vivre (Mr. Driver’s smile is as seductive as it is self-satisfied) that it takes awhile for the truth to stick.

            Throughout these proceedings, Mr. Baumbach avoids the poetically eye-catching.  Not a single image in “While We’re Young” could be called beautiful and that’s exactly the point—beauty might have swayed us emotionally, forcing us to root for Josh and Cornelia, rather than simply observing and beholding them in their folly.

            Fair enough.  That said, there’s something borderline nauseating about this detached manner of filmmaking; how can a movie truly be transcendent if it isn’t suffused with some kind of love?  True, you can compensate by committing to the deranged power of a bad-people-do-worse-things spectacle (as Martin Scorsese did with lubricated bravado with “The Wolf of Wall Street”), but Mr. Baumbach doesn’t have the zest (or the heart) for such a venture.

            Still, how can you afford to miss “While We’re Young”?  After all, like Alex Garland’s “Ex Machina,” it is a film that speaks to our moment—to the fashions and obsessions that empower and plague us (when Josh says he used to be skeptical of Facebook but now finds it to be “a useful tool,” he eerily encapsulates our acceptance of technological omnipotence).  And at times, the film is transcendent.  A shamanistic “ayahuasca” ceremony that Josh and company attend may be absurd, but in all its messiness, it’s kind of inspiring.  Everyone vomits, dresses in white and sprawls on the ground; you can’t help feeling that such absurdity is healthy.

            That makes it all the more painful that Josh and Jamie’s relationship implodes.  As “While We’re Young” rumbles toward its final scene, the tension capsizes and the drama of young and old is sacrificed in favor of an elaborate scheme that turns Jamie into the Joker of the hipster documentarian milieu. 

Problematic?  Sure.  As Josh realizes that his friendship with Jamie was a sham, a means for Jamie to advance his own career, you feel not just regret, but the machinery of Mr. Baumbach milking his movie for crowd-baiting drama.  But you also feel something else—the tragedy of Josh, a self-proclaimed “old man,” recognizing that it isn’t his age or his experience that divides him from Jamie and his ilk; it’s his honesty.

The world passed him by long ago. 

Movie Review: "Furious 7" (James Wan, 2015)

THE FAST, THE FURIOUS, THE SENTIMENTAL by Maxwell Meyers

The “Fast & Furious” series has been called many things—car porn, dude saga, franchise that could.  Seriously though, who would have thought after the original film was released in 2001 that it would yield enough stories to make six (yes, SIX) more films about a rag-tag gang of vehicle aficionados?  Not me.

Yet here we are, seven movies in and fourteen years later.  And since it was recently brought to my attention that I was the only Healthy Orange reviewer that had seen any of the movies in the series, I figured I should write a review for “Furious 7,” which already promises one the most gargantuan spectacles of 2015.

“Furious 7” brings its posse of hard-driving rogues back together—Dom (Vin Diesel), Letty (Michelle Rodriquez), Mia (Jordana Brewster), and Brian (Paul Walker).  They’re enjoying the quiet life (after their criminal records were expunged in 2013’s “Fast & Furious 6”)...until the enraged Deckard Shaw (Jason Statham) arrives from London, hot-blooded and eager to avenge his comatose brother (a former enemy of Dom and company).

If that description makes “Furious 7” sound like a soap opera for men, that’s because it is—these movies have everything from death to memory loss to resurrection to revenge (and that’s just from one character alone).  Usually, those ingredients would make for a clichéd and sour dish, but the film flourishes under the guidance of director James Wan.  Until now, Mr. Wan has been strictly a director of horror movies (including “Insidious” and “Saw”), but he proves an apt fit for the “Furious” crowd by topping the deliciously over-the-top vehicular stunts of the previous pictures (which is saying something, since “Fast & Furious 6” featured a car barreling out of an airborne airplane, PHYSICS BE DAMNED!).

But what of the elephant in the room?  Hanging over “Furious 7” is the loss of Mr. Walker, who died in a car accident last year.  At the time of his death, filming was incomplete; that fact irrevocably changed the course of the film, causing Mr. Wan to hire Mr. Walker’s brothers as body doubles and to use the magic of CGI and sound bites to fill in the blanks.

The gamble paid off…. sort of.  It does seem weird that Brian is in so many scenes of “Furious 7,” yet very rarely does or says much of anything, and it is distracting that the camera can’t gaze at him for too long (for fear of revealing Mr. Wan’s use of doubles).  But the film’s movie-magic-Frankenstein effects help make the illusion of Brian’s presence semi-seamless and, more importantly, “Furious 7” is a moving tribute to Mr. Walker.

“Furious 7” is not the finest hour of the “Furious” franchise, not least because it has a little less Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson than I would have liked (he co-stars as agent Luke Hobbs).  But I’m still giving the movie a B+.  After all, it is a nice little blockbuster prelude to the coming onslaught of summer movies, and a great sendoff for Mr. Walker.  His last drive, it turns out, is one of the better movies in “Fast & Furious” history, and dovetails with the rich legacy he’s left behind in the action genre.

Paul Walker will be missed.

Movie Review: "Avengers: Age Of Ultron" (Joss Whedon, 2015)

AVENGERS ASCENDING by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

May 2012, how I remember you.  It was the month of “The Avengers,” that box office-busting epic of costumed heroes slugging it out against the proverbial armies of intergalactic evil.  Everyone cheered the film’s arrival—everyone except me.  I had bled fanboyish passion all over many a superhero picture, but I felt nothing watching that one (save for the headache I had in the wake of its soulless, Manhattan-crunching violence).    

            The sequel is another matter.  In the vein of its predecessor, “Avengers: Age of Ultron” is a wild opus of roaring sound effects that could douse even the cushiest theater seat with a mini earthquake.  Yet just like one of its villains, the supersonic-platinum blonde Quicksilver (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), the movie also moves with speed and elegance, letting you relish the ecstatic whirl of being ushered into a realm of otherworldly sights—of high-tech aircrafts and godlike beings who exist, thrillingly, far beyond the mundane.

            But more on that later.  The first blush of the film (which was written and directed by Joss Whedon and produced by Marvel Studios) is a leap into a woodsy fray as the Avengers bash their way into the medieval-esque hideout of a Nazi mad scientist (don’t ask).  It’s a breathlessly choreographed battle; I watched “Ultron” from a front row seat, but even from my neck-craning vantage point, I felt seized by the glorious motion of this passage, from the first shot of the noble Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) steering his motorcycle between rough tree trunks to the magnificent flourish that finishes the fight: Avengers captain Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) snatching a blue-tipped scepter, just as Mr. Whedon cuts to black.

            But I’m neglecting the film’s story; apologies.  Fresh from their assembly in the first film, the Avengers turn their gaze from fighting global wrongdoing to ending it entirely.  “I think we just found a way to create Ultron,” Tony intones with dry wonder, alluding to a nasty metal behemoth whose world-protecting abilities could be the key to the Avengers’ retirement.

            The rapidity with which Ultron is constructed (and decides that, hey, people are terrible and ought to be blown up for their own good) is a testament to how feeble the narrative of “Age of Ultron” really is.  Surely it would have taken Tony years to craft his cyber-Frankenstein, but Mr. Whedon rushes through Ultron’s creation in one montage.  It’s a choice that betrays Mr. Whedon’s dismaying eagerness to leapfrog from one explosion to the next—something that spurs him to neglect some of the finer details of his story (at one point, an unarmed man swaggers into a heavily-guarded dungeon without encountering a single disposable lackey).

            So what makes “Age of Ultron” a cut above the original?  Certainly not its inane quips (“Yay!” Tony crows irritatingly as he strides through a hidden doorway) or its bumbling attempts to humanize its heroes (the Avengers’ recuperative stopover at a farm offers one of the most hackneyed portraits of rural domesticity in cinematic history).  Yet there’s no denying that the grind of welding together eleven industrial entertainments has aged the Marvel movie makers somewhat gracefully (“Age of Ultron” bears the creative boot print of its producer, Kevin Feige, as much as it does Mr. Whedon’s).   

            In other words, it’s all too easy to look past Mr. Whedon’s sloppy storytelling and relish the sensation of seeing this massive entertainment unfold on an equally massive screen.  Just look at the climax, in which the Avengers join forces atop a rubble-strewn city in Eastern Europe; with gleaming ease, it allows you to sit back and lose yourself in the poetically grimy chaos, as buildings and aircraft carriers rise towards the clouds and, in a moment of hairpin excitement, a young man appears out of nowhere, his body oozing bullets.

            That’s just one of many moments when the special effects-laden grandeur of the enterprise hooks you.  Yet it’s the actors who animate the movie, especially Scarlett Johansson (who sports a beautifully-coiffed auburn bob as the superspy Natasha Romanov).  Rarely does Ms. Johansson get a chance to exude her vivid vulnerability from “Lost in Translation” or her cutting strength from “Match Point”; here, she emanates both.  “I adore you,” she tells one of her teammates towards the end of “Age of Ultron” as she smooches him.  It’s a tender moment but after the kiss, Ms. Johansson doesn’t hesitate or flinch; she just does the only sensible thing an actor can do in a summer superhero epic. 

            She pushes the guy off a cliff.