Secret Agent Fred and I sailed off to go see Mad Max Fury Road the other afternoon and I am here to report that is one film that moves right along, apparently assuming, correctly, that no one in the audience is interested in thinking about what’s going on. It nominally features the fabulous Charlize Theron and the always luscious Tom Hardy, but actually the stars are the almost constant explosions. There is so much shit blowing up and the camera is tossed about with such carefree insouciance, it’s often difficult to tell who, or what is getting blown up this time.
While I’m fond of sci-fi as a genre, the real pull was Mr. Hardy and his pouty lip beauty, but tragically, he’s off screen for lots of the running timing and for most of the first third of the show he’s dressed in what appears to be a gardening trowel strapped to his face. So distracting.
Plus, after the movie we got back to my car and found it had been broken in. I had left it unlocked (which is most unlike me) so at least they didn’t bust out a window. All they got for their troubles was a plastic bag of loose coins I kept for parking meters (Hoo hoo! Must have been close to four bucks! Score!) and a fabulous suede jacket from Coach, probably retailing at $400 or $500, but that I got at a thrift store for like $30 I think. When I found it, I was swayed by the Coach label and the fact the sleeves were long enough for me, but honestly, it was always enormously too big for me. It made me look like a well dressed refugee.
Much worse was the Levi jacket of Fred’s they made off with which was adorned with a collection of buttons, including one of Any Winehouse as the Madonna. Fred is terribly distraught and who can blame him?