Happy end of the world.
Mad Max: Fury Road delivers. There's no clearer or more succinct way to put it. 30 years after last appearing on the big screen, Max roars back with a vengeance.
Even after two viewings, I feel as though I've only scratched the surface of Mad Max: Fury Road. George Miller's action fantasy is astonishingly dense for a big-budget spectacle, not only in its imagery and ideas but in the complex interplay between them.
Believe all the hype: This movie will melt your face off.
I saw it twice and liked it vastly more the second time around, when I'd adjusted my expectations and had my bearings from the get-go. Then it became about digging the spectacle - not to mention the hilarious sexual politics.
An A-plus B-movie that at times feels almost like a tone poem to early-'80s excess, a cross between a monster-truck rally and a Plasmatics concert.
A gorgeous, scrap-metal demolition derby of a popcorn picture.
For anyone who denied that Titus Andronicus could ever be mashed up with The Cannonball Run, here is your answer, and we are only too happy to follow Nux as he cries, "What a lovely day!," and accelerates into a whirlwind of fire.
Fury Road is also one of the best action movies of the decade, a punk Last Judgment with manic invention and depraved wit on display in every frame.