bushtony

Rich, famous, privileged people can experience trauma in their lives and are not immune from mental health problems because of their status. They can, however, afford therapy - the best therapy their money can buy. Poorer people, not so much. They can also utilise their status to give them a platform to tell their stories, share their experiences, air their grievances, real or perceived. Less famous, less prominent people, not so much.

Therapy enables, empowers an individual to accept things, come to terms with trauma and resulting problems, to understand them and to find strategies for coping with them and move on in life. However, if therapy works, why are the people on this show still crying? Why do they feel the need to repeatedly immerse themselves in their traumatic life events, keep going through them endlessly, relive them, keep banging on about them on a their gilded media soapbox. And how exactly does that help those less blessed who cannot afford or gain access to therapy and treatment?

There is a divide between the haves and have nots and shows like this won't help close it it, only cast a spotlight upon it and widen it. Encouraging people to speak out about their mental health issues, de-stigmatising them, is a good thing. Speaking out is great. But what then? Who listens if you are an average Joe or Joanna Soap, where do you get the help, how do you afford it (I'm talking about the US where there is no national health service)?

These sort of shows will help the rich and famous who make them and participate in them become richer and more famous. Which is what they are designed to do. Nothing much else.

Neil Marshall's genre mash-up is an eclectic blend of John Carpenter influences and direct references to Boyle's "28 Days Later" and Miller's Mad Max movies. From Rhona Mitras Snake Plissken eye patch to the splatterpunk villains and their insanely adapted patchwork vehicles for the gloriously cranked up chase sequences, it wears its inspirations prominently and unashamedly on its gore-soaked sleeves.

Not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, the whole trip is a blast. It's the sort of movie that barely pauses for breath so you don't really have time to dwell on the sheer blatancy of what it has appropriated from other sources. It moves forwards at pace and there's nearly always something happening. Designed as a high-octane rollercoaster ride - in common with some of the director's previous works (Dog Soldiers, The Descent) - it is best appreciated by just sitting back and going with the supercharged flow.

People get killed - beaten, shot, hammered, flattened, stabbed, sliced, diced, disembowelled, blown-up, decapitated, burned, roasted, eaten - with glorious abandon. Crazy comic book mayhem dished up with a sense of black-humoured glee.

I get that it won't appeal to all tastes - it's as if the term "cult item" was designed specifically for it - but if you like Escape From New York, Mad Max and 28 Days/Months Later - there's every possibility you will get some decent mileage out of this.

There's a great cast - Mitra, Hoskins, McDowell, Pertwee, et al - and they acquit themselves with appropriate tonal gravity in regard to the sort of vehicle they are appearing in. It's fun to imagine that when society collapses, we will either become cannibalistic urban punk warriors or medieval feudalists living in a big old castle. Nice that there's a reasonable choice.