"There should be a place where only the things you want to happen, happen."
In the haze of what could only be described as stumbling to the bathroom after rolling out of bed, I couldn't shake the dream that I thought I had. To have experienced the book as a kid was to escape into a fantasy world, an award winning picture book, in which you were the king of monsters. To see through Spike Jonze eyes, is to see the world as a child once again. I awoke to a stark reality. That I was not dreaming. I was indeed in a theatre, captivated by the magic of Maurice Sendak's masterpiece Where the Wild Things Are on the silver screen.
The weight of the world can be incredible. The reality of the eternal nothingness. . . The Infinite Abyss. . . The dog-eat-dog status quo in which, when it matters, we are all out for ourselves. The feeling that no one can hear us, or that we even matter to anyone else. There is heartbreak, lies, and change. All of that begets the explosive anger in us, like a child we lose the ability to be rational. A delayed temper tantrum, that implodes onto the suburban-working class-post-adolescent version of us. The worst version of ourselves, in which adulthood encroaches on us, and we can no longer pound our fists and go kicking and screaming into our rooms. The all encompassing loneliness of being a kid misunderstood amplified by the complexity of inter-office posturing, and TPS reports. We all feel this way sometimes. Just like a kid, staring out the rain freckled window of our room hoping for the sun to come out and warm the pane.
As an adult, we can't afford to be beholden to our emotions. That's a misstatement, we are only human, however we can ill-afford to let them run wild as a kid. Growing up is filled of rights-of-passage, many regrets, and ill-conceived genuflecting to the dreams of children. In the book, and movie Max wants a return to normalcy, to be as it was. Changes in family that he can't understand overcome his ability to tame the beast within, and he runs away. This is more than your standard kid's film. Pixar and 3D would have cheapened the experience, and Sendak's illustrations. This film is a trip, in away. For those so inclined, I would imagine that this would be fun on acid. For me, that's an imaginative leap, and those I am predisposed to. Max's imagination like many of ours is the conduit he uses to grow, and evade the harsh reality of the ceaseless minute during a timeout or the sting of a spanking.
This story impacted me, again, but even more this time. Anybody that knows me knows of my weakness for the story. Escapism is my nicotine, my balance to the pressures of knowing what I know—what an adult knows. Little Max is screaming mad at his sister, and mother. He just wants to be understood. His destructive actions are the only way in which he can convey his feelings. The ends justify the proverbial means, so to speak. By smashing, and tearing through the house he can get their attention. Now they will listen! Just like his friend Carol, played by the incomparable James Gandolfini, he smashes and destroys his friend's huts to express his anger. They just don't seem to understand him, and he doesn't yet understand the pain that he inflicts. Max's mother can't help but to see a monster. As in our lives, we feel impotent to affect our circumstances. I feel like Max a little every day. We all want to run into another world where we can be king. We all want to let the "wild rumpus" start.
As Max shapes the world of Wild Things, he soon finds out that he too is but only a player. A sobering truth for all of us, I thought as I listened to the radio scream at me on why the world is going to hell in a hand basket.
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