Where the Wild Things Are
I saw this ultimate night time.
Maurice Sendak wrote and illustrated Where the Wild Things Are in 1963. I was born two years later and I think my mother read it to me for the first time in 1969, the year I started kindergarten. Where the Wild Things Are was the first book I ever owned and between it and The Story About Ping by Marjorie Flack, my lifelong fascination with the world outside the one I call home was set.
I poured over Wild Thing's ten sentences and 48 pages every day for years as I remember it, but it was probably more like a couple of weeks before I moved on to something else. However, that book looms large in my imagination still. Six months ago, I learned that Spike Jonze was making a film adaptation of it, and I was worried that my childhood memories would be short-changed by a movie version.
I had nothing to worry about. Jonze's adaptation is brilliant, and that he manages to flesh out Sendak's original 10 sentences into a two hour movie is a testament to his skill as a filmmaker and story teller. Honestly, It didn't feel like he added a thing, so seamlessly does the script play into the original story line.
Despite the supply cloth, this isn't always a children's film. It's an person dissection of the memories and moods of a child, Max, the main man or woman. In Max's myth international, time hurries up and slows down as needed. His imagination is wonderful in its breadth however held in take a look at by the constrained stories of a seven-year-antique. He cannot see the ones limitations of direction, that is the appeal of childhood. But the target market can and the end result is a sluggish motion thrill.
The theater became full of different forty-somethings closing night and every now and then, it is first-rate to share a cultural touchstone with a room complete of strangers.
