What messages might one take from Mad Max: Fury Road, the scorching Aussie reboot in which whopping lorries bellyflop into each other as Tom Hardy glowers? Pass your driving test, for starters; post-apocalyptic desert wastelands are no place for pedestrians. Also: always bring your pliers, no matter how little you think you’ll need them.

But one of the more cheering morals of the movie – and, to a lesser extent, the three preceding – is that disability need be no barrier to ambition. The director, George Miller, was working as a doctor in Sydney’s A&E when he wrote the first Mad Max, patching up traffic smash survivors. So the world he presents is rich in amputees, the brain-injured, the frail and the chronically sick. But rather than being crushed, as one might fear in such a feral society, those coping with challenging physical conditions prosper, roping in others to help with creative solutions.

In 1985’s Beyond Thunderdome, a learning-disabled muscleman pairs up with a brilliant dwarf whom he carries on his shoulder to make a superbly effective symbiotic unit. In the new movie, the original film’s baddie, Toecutter, returns – but the battering he got 36 years back hasn’t slowed him down. Despite his lack of a mouth, plus agonising burns all over his morbidly obese body, he’s risen to be ruler of a major colony (new name: King Immortan Joe). Joe’s day starts with his boils being dusted in talc by slaves, then his being strapped into a Perspex torso and bespoke oxygen mask featuring tentacle tubing and a rictus-grin-effect mouthpiece. He’d be quite a sight on the podium at a leaders’ debate. Yet it’s he who controls the water supply and gets to impregnate the hottest babes.

His deputy is a midget who requires complex communication equipment; his right-hand woman, played by Charlize Theron, has one stumpy arm, to which she straps a high-tech claw. There are at least five scenes involving DIY surgery, generally performed on a bumpy ute in a dust storm, humans fused with bits of car to try and get through another day. The results put me in mind of those photos you sometimes see in the paper of customised mobility aids people make for their legless pets. Last week a 90-year-old tortoise called Mrs T had the wheels from a model airplane fitted to replace her front claws (chewed off by a rat while she was hibernating). Years back, a spaniel with gammy hips was kitted out with a two-wheeled chariot; the picture shows him streaming along, tongue out, eyes on the prize and, lagging behind, an able-bodied dog called Stanley, face full of amazement. The chariot dog’s name was Max. Hard to believe it’s a total coincidence.

The nicer side of Nigel





My great-grandfather, Edwin, who was blind, lived with his wife and eight children above what is now an optician’s in King Street, Ramsgate. You can still see the stone bath he built in the backyard to soak canes for chair-making to supplement his meagre income from begging from holiday-makers. The shop next door is now the Ramsgate HQ of Ukip.

Down there on Saturday, the town was thriving. I’ve never known it so buzzy, with groovy new coffee and vinyl shops, little boutiques and gentrified pubs. Decades of neglect made Thanet a good target for Nigel Farage. His focusing attention on the area has helped mean its residents no longer feel they require him. They may not have elected him as MP, but for this, he does deserve some thanks.

Cannes’ Dear Leader

The official Cannes poster this year has, in line with the festival’s new serious focus, done away with the razzle-dazzle and opted for clean lines and arthouse cred. It’s a picture of Ingrid Bergman’s head and shoulders – or, rather, just her head, for she’s wearing white – and the picture stares down at you, 60 feet tall, from enormous billboards all over town. The effect is quite frightening. It’s as if Bergman is an apparently compassionate yet actually ruthless movie dictator. The crowds gaze up at her image, taking selfies, willing, biddable. Here, the stars rule, with glittery grip.