Jurassic Park 3 was the first film I ever walked out on. Just got up and left right in the middle. It was July 2001 and I loved exactly three things: dinosaurs, going to the cinema, and not wasting what little money I earned.
Yet, I still couldn’t get to the end of that movie. I shuffled through the sticky-floored foyer of Loughborough’s Curzon Cinema, past the film’s silver and red promotional cardboard cutout of a non-distinct pterosaur, and got on with my summer holiday.
Back home, I still had the dinosaur magazines I’d collected as a child, and the balsa wood model triceratops skeleton which came, a bone at a time, with the week’s edition at the local shop.
As I said, I loved dinosaurs. But I no longer loved dinosaur films. If Jurassic Park 3 was the death throe of a franchise that started off jaundiced and sustained itself simply by placing T-Rexes in ever-increasingly incongruous situations, then I was fine with that .