Where the Wild Things Are

I never read the book of Where the Wild Things Are. I didn’t even think I’d heard of the book before, until I saw a picture of the cover tonight and recognised the artwork. But the trailers for this film looked interesting, and there was a very positive online reaction to it when it came out in the States a couple of months ago, so was pleased to see it.

And I enjoyed it quite a lot! The story is simple and the characters engaging and multi-faceted, but what makes it a success is its melancholy mood, the way that every time there is an uplifting part, it is so run-through with the inevitability of collapse, conflict and heartache that its fragility is a beautiful, ephemeral thing.

This was, as is becoming increasingly well-known, not marketed to children, but to a crowd of young adult hipsters. Wise decision, because that’s the audience it needs. Even though, quite brilliantly, Max is a very real little boy, with all the strangeness and selfishness and destructiveness that entails, kids will likely for the most part be bewildered and unimpressed by the glib, sarcastic, blasé dialogue of most of the Wild Things.

I found myself feeling quite affectionate to it all. I liked the grimness of its tone, the arty direction and the total rejection of all the usual boardroom-approved staples of movies based on kids’ books. On the other hand, my cousin seemed to find it dull and disliked the indifferent attitudes of some characters, while affection for seeing a kid grow and mature obviously isn’t something that stays after you raise some yourself, for my mum found nothing to like at all about bratty Max, with no sympathy for his home situation. She, after all, has to deal with patients like that daily…