Where The Wild Things Are connected with me on a surprisingly personal level. While I have been a lifelong fan of Maurice Sendak's book (and artwork), the reaction I had to the film was curiously influenced by the strangely familiar connection I felt to Max. Watching this film felt like watching an alternate, untold story of my adolescence, and at times the cinematic empathy was powerful. As a creative, intellectual adult I am only just beginning to process internal darkness and volatility. Just because I was a smart (ass) kid and had a big imagination didn't mean I was equipped to process the emotions, loneliness, and isolation I often felt. Like Max, I eventually escaped feeling unknown through imagination and inspiration, into created worlds where I was fully known, and could fully know, the mystery of the surrounding Universe. The truth is that this illusion of escape was often misguided distraction in disguise. But it was still a gift. Sometimes primal feelings are not supposed to be tamed. Wild things, indeed…
In my opinion, the Spike Jonze film is a brilliant work of art that paints a lush landscape of childhood imaginings, where every thicket of trees is an ancient forest and every stretch of sand is an endless desert. It is a diverse and believable vision of men and monsters, and the artisans and actors bring them to life with stunning results. The practical creature-suit and CGI amalgams feel like the real future of created characters - physically present in the scene and digitally enhanced, pushing them seamlessly to the next level. At the very least, it's an enchanting story that will charm and challenge anyone who is open to its offbeat perspective.
Max is a bright, caring, and creative boy who has difficulty communicating his feelings and thoughts. Yet he remains open to life, and that makes him vulnerable. This leaves Max hurt, scared and very, very lonely. But life is hard, and Max is in danger. He is in danger of leaving behind the purest part of childhood - the part with backyard forts and unashamed imagination and wolf suits. After a fight at home, Max runs away in anger, and pretends to sail across the ocean until he comes to a lost island, inhabited by giant, furry, wild things. These wild things are an odd, dysfunctional group who fight amongst each other and who are essentially giant children themselves. They appoint Max as their king, and in time, the bonds they share are wonderful and heartbreaking and real.
Where The Wild Things Are is filled with melancholy, and every happy moment is bittersweet because it is offset by the thought of something sad or scary. The thought of being tackled and smashed under a pile of wild things or being eaten by a grumpy monster is scary. Scarier still is thinking about your family falling apart. Or not being understood. Or being alone. Or loving someone so much... and not being loved the same way in return. Thankfully, the film does not seem to be seeking a pulpit to preach these potential parallels. It's a story that's fundamentally sad at its core, but is also uplifting and wonderful in its hopeful belief that love and forgiveness are more powerful than fear or pain.
Perhaps Jonze hasn't so much adapted the book as he has revived its nostalgic insight. Certainly, the main elements of Sendak's story remain, but they are enhanced, enlarged, and seen through new lenses of revelation. Part of Jonze's revealing look at the truth of childhood is the way that he embraces emotional, psychological, and physical damage. The story doesn't flinch from joy or pain, and that's why it feels true.
Where The Wild Things Are is ultimately a modern day fairy-tale about the wonders and sorrows of growing up. It is also a beautifully simple tale about real acceptance, real imagination, and real love. In no way does it conform to the cowardly, preconceived expectations of how a children's film should be experienced. In fact, it isn't a children's film, at all. It is a film about the child in each of us, and the wild things waiting deep inside.
Until next time…
JP
