In Cormac McCarthy's The Road, one of the only things that sustains the protagonists is the idea that they "carry the fire." This fire—the inchoate sense that people have a duty to strive after something greater than themselves—is completely absent from The Rover. The only fires that appear onscreen are kindled by the hands of one man, who then stands back and watches the flames consume the fuel.
It's a bleak vision of mankind minus civilization or morality, and I admire David Michod's commitment to the portrayal even as I wish there were more going on beneath the surface. Guy Pearce's variant on The Man With No Name will stop at nothing to retrieve the car that was stolen from him, but the reveal of the truth behind the Maguffin provides little in the way of comforting resolution. The film's final shot offers only the following observation: human or animal, we all are destined for a dirt nap at the end.