With respect to Socrates, my unexamined life is not worth living. The front room is the face we show everyone but we hide our true self in the back room.
For a brisk two hours you are strapped to the war rig like a hood ornament hurtling through the wasteland, diving chainsaw-wielding pole jumpers and explosions, hanging upside down, your head grazing the desert floor or fending off hordes of homicidal bikers and brainwashed gear-heads all hoping for final victory in Valhalla, as your blood is drained to feed others’ ultra-mania energy when you’re not spitting gasoline into the turbo thrusters of the monster vehicles that breathe fire, with spikes encompassing it like sadistic terminator porcupines, while the death metal soundtrack pounds thunder into your ears and assaults your eyes with the satanic caravan of red pajama guitar gorgons and sacrificial tribal drums as you lead straight into a sand storm that not only picks warriors out from their vehicles but rips the flesh from their bodies before they are swept up in a tsunamic swirl of skull, bones, and twisted metal your reward for surviving, a relentless battle between the psychopaths and your own psychosis a waking nightmare, a visual carousel of lost souls pushing you further toward redemption or insanity alongside a fearless warrior queen who sacrificed everything to bring home five young woman bravely taking back their own bodies the quest much more deep than eye-bulging, hi-octane savagery.
Beauty surrounds this majestic film experience. Shot in Australia, Namibia and South Africa the landscape is breathtaking, the action sequences are scary and thrilling and the soundtrack draws from adrenaline-racing guitar-driven power chords to the unforgettable Morricone influence of his spaghetti western days.
As the credits roll your bride relaxes her grip. Your hand slips from hers. She turns to you, beaming.
You both exhale.
The heart has once more found its normal resting rate.
When can I see it again?