"Let the Wild Rumpus Start!"

Somewhere between the story and pictures by Maurice Sendak and the feature film by Spike Jonze; softly and savagely and sweetly enfolded by:

“The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind…”

and

“…and it was still hot.”

Is the kind of story we forget that children have to tell.

When I first read Where the Wild Things Are it was almost fifteen-years-old. I must have been about five. And, when I saw the movie I was nearly forty – but not forty, yet. To my thinking, the story Sendak has given us aged well. It has grown up and filled out; gotten taller and stronger. Watching Jonze’s (and Dave Eggers’) retelling of Wild Things, I was surprised as the pain and fear and rage and powerlessness my parents’ divorce made me feel as a child came welling up. These things surprised me in the same way a sunset surprises you. It’s no surprise that the sun actually sets, just that you notice it, appreciate it, maybe even have it to share with someone else. Taking all this in with my wife and children and a theatre-full of people had this effect.

The other surprising thing about the movie was how powerful a reminder it is that Max’s story is a story about Love – quite possibly the wildest wild thing that we foolishly either try to run from, chase away or domesticate. By the closing credits, I found myself glad to have accompanied Max, once again, on his fantastic voyage into the heart of darkness, away from the lightness of being, and back again home, “…where someone loved him best of all.”