8 Balls & 8 Reelers #3: Remember Her Name
8 Balls & 8 Reelers #3: Remember Her Name
Witness Her
What a week. Upon hearing the news of Memorial Day weekend’s abysmal overall box office performance, I started the week in a stinker mood due to the lack of glory Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga deserves. She deserves it all.
I don’t think it is possible to meet the standards of Mad Max: Fury Road, considering it is the best best best best action movie ever made. So I kept my expectations in check for this surprise sequel at which angry neckbeards scream “No OnE aSkEd FoR tHiS”. I expected a great action movie, knowing George Miller still has the sauce after making Three Thousand Years of Longing (2022); low and behold, the madman shifted from high-octane bliss into a fable of mythical proportions served on a Roman platter.
Shifting focus onto the beloved heroine’s past was a huge gamble for Miller, who put the entire franchise at stake, though I would argue that sights are lined against him wrongly, rather than the expensive gatekeeping of moviegoing culture (among greater economic troubles). But he delivered what he intended to set forth.
The prequel presents as a play, a tale of old, noted by the intricate 5-act structure. But does Furiosa deliver on the promises of masterstroke action that the previous installment lay the foundation for? Yes and no: To clear the elephant from the room, there is technically less action than the other films of the saga, but the two core set pieces of guzzoline-fueled, crane dueling carnage jacks up our catharsis to an electric, flamethrowing guitar level of 11 out of 10.
Yes. Crane combat.
But Miller aims for mythmaking over typical action stereotypes. Furiosa’s odyssey is one of loss, confusion, chaos, and sorrow. But as her life unfolds, she rejects the fate of destined sorrow, even when her chances are torn from her hands, sometimes an arm along with it.
“Prequelitis”, the mocking nostalgia bait I always dread upon an extension or reboot of a beloved franchise, is thankfully, not present. What little callbacks exist are sparse and make sense. For example, in Fury Road, there is a motley gang of ragged bikers inhabiting a great canyon. They show up for a total of 3 seconds, in the distance, only too kill an ill-fated trespasser. The closest I got to shrugging my shoulders was the subplot of losing her arm, but focus is thankfully concentrated elsewhere.
Okay… we’ve got to talk performances. Anya Taylor-Joy? Fantastic? This role is a big ask following the running freight train that is Charlize Theron. The character’s legacy and Theron’s face are titanic. But not only does Taylor-Joy bring her own baggage to the the Imperator, but I also think her mimicry of Theron’s older, war-tired stature is downright evolutionary.
But the show stealer is, without a doubt, my favorite dang-ass-freak Chris Hemsworth as bearded Mel Gibson Dementus, the giddy, motorcycle-chariot warlord who fosters young Furiosa. My fist impression: he sounds like a high-pitched seagull with plastic constricting his neck. But under the surface of that oh so delicious theatrical lunacy, is how his desire to leave a legacy slowly corrodes him into a tired old Santa.
This great duel is without a doubt one of the best prequels ever made; by far the best of this century.
Things I Enjoyed
Peter Bogdonavich has been a sore blindspot in my movie watching for some time now. With its recent curation on the Criterion Channel (the best streaming service), I finally gave him a shot with Targets (1968). I feel this man can predict the future. A frightening tale of violent transition in power and culture. Also an early statement of American gun culture that is genuinely unnerving and primal.
Upon finishing the early works of Michelle Sagara, I decided to finally start exploring Science Fiction, starting with Red Rising, and oh boy am I hooting and hollering. Though I have yet to finish, I have high hopes that this series might be a new favorite. The writing is sewn with simple prose, intruded by powerful bouts of violence and savagry. The worldbuilding seems simple but opens up, while easily digestible, and boy do I love me some lore.
I have been getting into meditation recently, thus have been throwing practices like shit at a wall. This week I gave Centering Meditation/Prayer a chance, and I was emotionally struck with a bat wrapped in sawblades and razor wire. Give it a try: Find a quiet space, close your eyes, and imagine a river. Leaves flow in the river. Those are your thoughts. Sometimes you may hone in on a memory, painful or euphoric. Call yourself back to the river at large with a centering word (I used “Brother”). I am absolutely no religious person, but the post-meditative state let me be open, I chose what to let in, and be vulnerable. Grateful.
Also, I heard Home Alone 2: Lost in New York star Donald Trump was found guilty for stuff. Wack.