Mel Gibson climbs back into the black leather pants for a third run-around as George Miller's dusty, dystopian desert-goer, in what would be his curtain call with the franchise. Something of a paradox, _Beyond Thunderdome_ is both a different beast from the other Max movies and, at the same time, cut from the same cloth.

The budget has certainly ballooned, lending a mainstream sheen to the formerly scrappy, seat-of-pants production. That influx of cash goes a long way, enabling Miller's vision to blossom into a genuine dash of unrestrained wasteland genius (the wardrobe, vehicle and environment designs are way ahead of their time), but the non-action scenes feel far softer and less confident than before. Chalk that up to the extra director, I guess, who kept an eye on the shop while Miller concentrated on getting the adrenaline-driven shots just right. There's still no shortage of inspired, alien weirdness, but it feels less essential, less purposeful. Tina Turner's bejeweled junkyard princess is a good example, talking and acting tough but lacking the conviction and follow-through to really make the role mean anything. Max's mid-act sidetrack to meet an oasis-dwelling troupe of forgotten children is equally hollow, like someone dropped the pilot episode of a spin-off series in the midst of the original film.

At least it all comes together for an appropriately white-knuckled sendoff: another epic, high-octane pileup with a colorful fleet of spike-trimmed desert buggies and flame-belching hot rods. I was beginning to wonder what'd become of all the eight-cylinder death machines that were so pervasive in preceding chapters.