WELCOME
BACK IN 2015, when Mad Max: Fury Road first revved its thunderous engine and stormed into cinemas, I headed to the Curzon Soho to luxuriate in George Miller’s masterpiece for a third time. Cut to five minutes into the film. Max has gobbled a mutant gecko. He’s been branded and forcibly tattooed. A legion of pasty-white, hideously scarred, Gollum-y War Boys have leered, shrieked and cavorted. Suddenly, the middle-aged man next to me stands up and in a booming voice declares three words to the auditorium at large: “NOT FOR ME.” Then he scurries down the aisle and flees the building. BACK IN 2015, when