Strip away all the video. All the audio. All the cinematography. All the acting. And this is still some powerful, evocative, and effective writing:

My life fades

the vision dims.

All that remains are memories.

I remember a time of chaos

ruined dreams this wasted land.

But most of all, I remember the Road Warrior

the man we called Max.

To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time

when the world was powered by the black fuel

and the deserts sprouted great cities of pipe and steel.

Gone now swept away.

For reasons long forgotten, two mighty warrior tribes went to war

and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all.

Without fuel they were nothing. They'd built a house of straw.

The thundering machines sputtered and stopped.

Their leaders talked and talked and talked

but nothing could stem the avalanche.

Their world crumbled the cities exploded.

A whirlwind of looting

a firestorm of fear.

Men began to feed on men.

On the roads it was a white-line nightmare.

Only those mobile enough to scavenge

brutal enough to pillage would survive.

The gangs took over the highways

ready to wage war for a tank of juice.

And in this maelstrom of decay

ordinary men were battered and smashed.

Men like Max

the warrior Max.

In the roar of an engine, he lost everything

and became a shell of a man

a burnt out, desolate man

a man haunted by the demons of his past.

A man who wandered out into the wasteland.

And it was here in this blighted place

that he learned to live again.