Australia's known for a lot of things. It was founded as a British prison colony. It's the home of many rare animals indigenous only to that big island wasteland, such as the Koala, the Kangaroo and those baby eating relatives of mine, the Dingo. Australia was also home to a lot of "flavor of the month"s that personally left a taste like rotting fetus in my mouth, the likes of Vegemite™, Paul Hogan and of course, Foster's™, Australian for "beer", even though Aussies don't drink it... Despite all it's down comings, Australia has also produced some of Hollywood's most beloved acting talents, including Academy Award winners Russell Crowe, Nicole Kidman and Mel Gibson, the latter of which is the focus of this review, or rather his character, the greatest natural export of the continent of Australia: Mad Max.

Often imitated (well, back in the '80s) and never, and I emphasize, NEVER(!) EVER(!!) duplicated, director George Millar's revolutionary post-apocalyptic trilogy on the life of police officer-turned-self styled vigilante of the highways, Max Rockatansky, has been a favorite of movie fans and critics alike. 20 years later, each installment is 100% entertainment in my book, and I saw each one at the drive-in when they were released... of course I was like 10 months old when the original was released, but hey, it stuck with me (albeit very vaguely) and the Mad Max Trilogy has been a pillar in my movie collection since I was old enough to buy my own copies, whether on VHS, DVD or microchip implanted into your cerebral cortex... trust me, you'll learn a lot about the future once you save up enough Bazooka Joe™ comics to mail out for your own time machine.

Many critics, from the sell-out "professionals" (like you need a degree from Yale to hate movies) to the "got nothing better to do" armchair Eberts like myself, have put their ballot in the box of The Road Warrior as their favorite in the series, and I'm hard pressed to find argument with that choice. Like any good trilogy, the first installment is meant more to flesh out the characters, to give the background and the motivations for our hero, leaving the movies to follow to really let the shit fly! In laments terms? There's no need to tell a complicated story or make a lot of exposition, so it's time to rev the engine and put the balls to the asphalt, cuz there's action and destruction to be had! Woooooo!

I know, I'm taking forever to get around to the movie, but I just got a little more background to throw down before the feature. Think of it as the previews and public service announcements... Okay, despite the acknowledgement given the trilogy now, the first Mad Max was far from being a box office record breaker here in the states. It may have out-sold shit like Star Wars in it's native Australia, but the hippies and disco coke heads of the Americas weren't really interested in anything but Cheech & Chong and John Travolta... now there's an idea for a movie... a really BAD movie... though now that the idea's been formed, someone in Hollywood will no doubt get wind of this and jump right on it tomorrow...

Well, when Mad Max 2 found it's way to U.S. shores, distributors didn't think it was such a great stroke of marketing genius to release it under it's original title, since few people knew what a "Mad Max" was. And so, the title was dropped, The Road Warrior was glued in it's place and ta-da, you've got a career for Mel Gibson. I'd talk about Mel, but it wouldn't be anything you haven't already heard, so it's pointless and would just result in more cramps for my fingers and more senseless radiation to burn out your corneas. Instead, I'll just get on with it.

The world is a wasteland. Nuclear war has left humanity in a burned out state, a state that looks a lot like 90% of Australia. The only law is might makes right, only those with the weapons and the ferocity to use them reign and if you've got gasoline, you better have the muscle to keep it or the wheels to outrun those who want it. There are no winners, just survivors... wow, I gotta lay off the drama before I turn into a Danielle Steele novel... not that I'm into that kinda pussy shit mind you. Anyway, when we last left the man called Max, his wife and son had been run down by the local ruffians on their motor-scooters. As for why this happened, I'd say it's time for you to go back and watch Mad Max for a little refresher. Having exacted his revenge on those who fucked him over, Max, well, we don't know what happened to Max after that, as that's where the movie ended.

When a soldier's got no war to fight and no one to come home to, what becomes of him? Well, usually they just go insane and kill themselves, taking down as many yuppies and hippies with them as possible. As for Max, well, he's still kickin' it, only the highways from his day were friendly in comparison to what they've become... From the looks of our film in question, it's assumed that the world has regressed more and more over the years since Max's story began. Even the idea of law enforcement is little more than a memory, as the people have taken to forming tribes like Neanderthals to survive... Neanderthals who do all their shopping at the Salvation Army and high school gym equipment supply closets. But, just like professional sports, when you've got opposing teams, the shit's gonna hit the fan when they both want the same thing. In this case it's fossil fuels, because only the mobile can make it here.

Speaking of which, one such mobile individual is our pal Max, far more grizzled and far less baby faced than his last adventure... and now sporting his original voice, complete with accent! As he enters the picture, we find Max engaging in some extra-CAR-icular genocide with a couple of post-nuke fashion victims, eventually coming out king of the heap as always. And the spoils of war? A couple gallons of gas... solar power's looking pretty good right about now. Yes, Mr. Rockatansky lives on, a wolf without a pack in a jungle where everybody's the competition. Only a guy like Max could pull it off too, cuz this wolf's got teeth that would make the titular beast of Grizzly run and hide, and a cunning that would make the Riddler blush. Also, now that he's no longer running on revenge, we get to see what kind of man Max has really become.

As Max continues on his trek, further down the road he finds a seemingly abandoned gyro-plane... yes, a one-man chopper powered by Greek hoagies... Inspection of the scene proves the vehicle's not so abandoned, when a very geeky and googly-eyed skeleton of a man in pink bedroom slippers jumps from nowhere, brandishing a crossbow aimed squarely at our protagonist. Just when it looks like the feeb's got all the cards though, we meet Max's one amigo: his bloodthirsty dog. Before Dog (vigilante yes, creative vigilante no) can make Alpo™ out of the pilot's trachea, Max opts to spare him in exchange for the guy's promise of all the petrol he'll ever need. As always there's a catch to the deal, as the liquid gold in question is the possession of a group of nomads who all wear white (in a desert wasteland? That's a Joan Rivers no no!) and are hold up in a little junkyard lair like the kind you used to make out of bed sheets, some chairs and a coffee stand as a kid... or like I made yesterday.

As if acquiring the fuel from them wouldn't be hard enough, the selfish bastards are already in a stand off with a gang of leathered, feathered, mohawk topped, weapon wielding, gearhead psychopaths who just want the "good guys" to share the wealth in this time of need... then rape and kill them and use their lifeblood to grease their engines while their children burn in the twilight of their destruction. You know, just another Friday night. These guys are a lot tougher than the kind of waste cases Max was dealing with before. Last time it was just some biker thug trash, this time it's asylum escapees in souped-up death machines that look like they escaped from the old skool WWF days, when guys like The Legion Of Doom ruled the mat! Their leader, Lord Humungus, could easily pass as a member of Demolition! Legion of Doom fans should make the obvious Road Warriors connection in this case, other should just kinda nod as if they know what's going on...

While scoping out the camp, Max witnesses a couple of cars leave, some in one direction and some in another, one the obvious decoy for the marauders while the other carrying something important, though what I'm not sure. Maybe he's just out to pick up some more Slim Jims™ and Kool-Aid™, but whatever the reason, it doesn't work. The good guys (referred to as such because they're the ones NOT dressed in studded leather dungeon gear and stainless steal sporting equipment) fail and the driver is pinned to his car, left for dead while his female associate is brutalized in the way feminists hate most. Always a man to grasp opportunity and beat it stupid, Max slips in a saves the driver, then returns with him to the outpost under the proposal of petrol in exchange for the man's life.

The assholes aren't down with sharing the wealth though, and instead take Max and his muscle car hostage... and these are the good guys kids... never trust nomads, gypsies or fortified desert rats in white padded get ups, you'll get a big bite on the ass and wind up in the back of... the... line... where the FUCK was I going with THAT!? Oh man, I've completely derailed here... please don't tell me I'm stuck ripping off guys like Gene Shallet already, my career as a movie critic's not even into it's 5th year yet! I was hoping to avoid the heroin and heavy dependency on alcohol to write my work for me until at least year 7...

While held captive in the little encampment, Max pays witness when Humungus ("the Ayatollah of rock & roll!") and his troops gather at the gates to make threats and feed their egos. Basically, the deal is this: if the good guys pack up and leave, forfeiting their fuel reserves and their home, then no one will be hurt and they'll be allowed safe passage. If you believe that, I've got 2 bridges, some beach front property in Siberia and Mt. Rushmore up for grabs. I'm having a garage sale! Anyway, for an alternative, the group doesn't have much choice: stay in and be slaughtered mercilessly... did I mention that I'm starting to see the promise in solar power? I did? Okay, just wanted to make sure I got that statement across.

Also whilst in the junkyard-fortress, Max befriends the local "special" student, the Feral Kid. FK (cuz the kewl kidz today use initials, and I'm in touch with the beat of today's youth) is a young lad who can only communicate in grunts and howls like an animal, to compliment his dressings of various animal pelts and uncouth mane of hair. He's not all primitive though, as the boy's got a stainless steel boomerang (what did you expect from a Aussie flick?) and one Hell of an arm! This point is proven on Humungus's toadie, who attempts to capture the 'rang, only to lose a handful of fingers in the process... "handful of fingers"? Something doesn't sound right about that...

Seeing opportunity at his feet, Max makes the offer to help these pussies out of their jam. His service doesn't come cheap though, as the Mad One sets a price of lots of petrol for his help. Begrudgingly, the group's leader, Poppagallo, agrees to free Max and pay him the gas upon the completion of his side of the agreement. Once outside of the camp (slipping past Humungus and crew), Max seeks out the Gyro Captain again and offers to let him in on his gasoline deal with the nomads. When a guy like Max makes you an "offer", it's best to take it, as the word "no" could be translated as "please kick my ass and/or decapitate me" in "The English-to-Mad Max" dictionary. With his new sidekick and the gyro-copter, Max has little difficulty acquiring an abandoned tractor trailer from down the highway. After another testosterone-fueled car chase sequence, Max delivers the rig, with which the shut-ins should have an easier time packing up their Texas tea and shipping out of the wasteland and to the posher part of the post-apocalypse, where they can live out the rest of their days as gas barons! Take that NATO!

Though Max claims his prize for his hard work, his big deal V-8 Interceptor muscle car gets scrapped by some of Lord Hugh's goons! He crawls from the underbrush to watch Dog take a fatal arrow shot. The villains take their own casualties when they try to swipe Max's fuel though, as his booby trap ignites, making his beloved man machine go *BOOM!* and scrapping several of the thugs in the process. Instead of being left for dead along the side of the highway, our anti-hero is saved by the Captain and his airborne ambulance, picking the injured Max up and airlifting his crippled ass back to the nomads, where he's patched up and saved. Back on his feet and with nothing left to lose, beaten and bruised, his car a flaming wreckage and his pooch a Vietnamese shish-ka-bob, Max is back to the one thing he knows better than anyone else: hatred and revenge. Nobody fucks with Max Rockatansky and Humungus and the good time gang are about to find out why!

Asking nothing in return, Max offers to drive the tanker for the good guys, seeking some diesel-fueled destruction and maybe, just maybe, wanting to help out the little guys. So, armed with his trusty sawed-off (man's true best friend), a handful of shells and 20 tons of raging steel vengeance on wheels, Max and the others pack up for action. Leaving the refinery outpost a flying pile of burning debris and ignited tires, they head into action, but who will win? Will the optimistic nomads find their way to Nirvana, or will the dogs of war slip their leash and fill their bloodlust? Well, over the course of the final 15-20 minutes, it doesn't really matter who wins, because there's plenty of heavy metal mayhem and mangled bodies to makeup for any kind of plot!

When it's all said and done (violently so), many are dead, ventilated by bullets and crossbow shafts, scorched in Henry Ford's worst nightmare or swallowed up by hungry Goodyear™s and Firestone™s. Nomads and psycho punks alike, very few are left breathing when it's all over. The chase finally ends though, when Max splatters Humungus and his fiends like gnats in the tanker's grill, causing the truck to jackknife! When it comes to a stop, we learn that the truck was stuffed with... sand. Yes, instead of flammable fuel, Max was hauling worthless sand while the second wave of wanderers, including the Gyro Captain and Feral Kid, headed for the opposite direction with their beat up old Suburbans packed to the hilt with barrels of fuel. Whether he realized he was a decoy or not is the question on my mind, but one thing's for sure: it's a good thing Max was hauling sand, otherwise he would've wound up in the epicenter of one big fireball. Mad Max or not, I doubt that would've mattered much with the meat fried off his bones like a ravaged hot wing... damn it, now I'm hungry. Realizing they've just wasted about 90% of their manpower and resources (not to mention their boss) on a truck full of sand, the remaining punks turn around and go home defeated. But, with all that sand they could make low grade windshields or enjoy countless hour glasses!... not buying it? Yeah, hourglasses are overrated. I'm more a sundial guy myself. As our closing narrative states, the Gyro Pilot look over the leadership of the clan in Poppagallo's passing (wasted in the tanker chase) and even later on the Feral Kid took over when the Pilot left, growing up to become the narrator. As for Max, his story (and Tina Turner's) continues in the next movie...

So, there you have it, an all out, balls-to-the-wall, automotive holocaust. An hour-and-a-half of nitro-injected madness in the quintessential post-apocalyptic highway gladiator rumble. Bodies everywhere, high-powered slaughter and more hot rod carnage than you can shake a bag full of severed fingers at. Beautiful. It's not art (unless you're Evil Kinevil or Charles Manson), it's just action and destruction... and that's good enough for me! Why can't there be more Aussies like George Millar? He's the working man's Shakespeare... not that I know what being a "working man" is like... I don't like cheap beer, I don't like country music, I don't like pick-up trucks and I hate Nascar... eh, fuck that "working man" shit, I'm Anubis, God of Death and Embalming, slayer of rednecks, creature of rock, black belt of movie-fu and lord of the squared circle! My point? Mad Max is God, George Millar is the Michelangelo of the post-nuke movie, I want the costume designers from this movie to put together my wardrobe and Mel Gibson can be forgiven for What Women Want. If nothing else convinces you you need to own this movie, consider this: where else are you gonna see Mel Gibson eating dog food?