So, I saw “Where The Wild Things Are.”
It was interesting. I liked it.
When Maurice Sendak, original author of “Where The Wild Things Are,” originally teamed up with writer Dave Eggers and director Spike Jonze for the purpose of adapting his short book to movie form, he told them, “make it yours.”
They certainly did. This version of “Where The Wild Things Are,” as a result, may be the first time I’ve seen an adaptation of a children’s book that doesn’t dumb it down and make it insipid and stupid. Remember how horrible the Jim Carrey and Mike Myers interpretations of Dr. Seuss classics were? This movie took great pains to be the opposite of that, to the point where this is not a movie for kids (although “Where The Wild Things Are” is most certainly a book for kids). It’s a movie ABOUT kids.
This movie version of “Where The Wild Things Are” is a movie about the pains of being a kid. Being misunderstood. Being torn in different directions. The Max of this movie is a cauldron of impulse and emotion, which seems about right. Max Records as Max is phenomenal, by the way, especially when you consider that he’s making his acting debut opposite puppets.
Sad and lovely, with a great soundtrack and beautiful design, it’s nice to see a movie that doesn’t insult my childhood but builds upon childhood memories. I hope that some day my own Wild Things - my nieces and cousins - can watch it and understand that, for all of our exasperation and impatience, we, the adults of their lives, still get it. Whatever “it” is.
