In a pre-Telluride, non-mp3-supplemented discussion of award-season intrigues, The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg and Stephen Galloway conclude with an ill-considered remark:
Galloway: “The problem isn’t an excess of festivals; it’s that so many follow each other in a crunch — Venice, Telluride, Toronto and New York. All the serious-minded movies come tumbling out in the fall, then the rest of the year it’s comic-book pictures. Which is exactly why I’m dying to see a good film now. I’ve wandered through the summer desert and I’m parched. Other than Straight Outta Compton, I can’t think of any recent film I fell in love with and believe should get a best picture nomination.”
HE to Galloway: There was this little film that opened three and a half months ago called Mad Max: Fury Road. (May is relatively “recent,” right?) The most awesomely composed action spectacle in a dog’s age. A masterwork from the great George Miller. Ten days ago Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan insisted that Fury Road was the year’s best film so far. Maybe you need to watch it again?