When you’re nine it’s hard to imagine being any older, or any more responsible or any less adventurous. Words like “afford” don’t exist yet. Everything that happens is the most violent, most scary, most vibrant thing that could be done in the moment of its doing. No film captures the violence of youth quite in the same way Spike Jonze‘s Where the Wild Things Are does.
For the children who see it it will be a strange adventure with furry creatures who cry and yell and almost kiss each other a lot, which is icky and weird and cool. They have sharp teeth they say they use but never really do and voices that, in some cases, sound deeper than they should, one thats sounds a lot like the mean fat guy from that show dad used to watch alone because it was for grown ups. Are these furry animals parents? No, they couldn’t be.
For those older who see it – those fans of the Maurice Sendak children’s book from which the film is based on and faithful to – the film will be at once a nostalgic trip back to childhood and a vivid reminder that that kind of youth is too far gone to ever be fully gotten back but the conflicts that came with growing up will always linger on.
Max (played by Max Records) is a young, rambunctious kid whose mother (Catherine Keener) is hard working, short-sleeping and single (the film alludes to a deceased husband/father). She’s got a boyfriend (Mark Ruffalo) who is in over his head in the single mother department and doesn’t quite know what to say when Max gets out of line, i.e. bites his mother in the arm.
This is an American family and Max is an American son desperate to discover in a world that’s been combed out through and through. His attempts at adventure end in tears and wet carpets and he can’t understand why.
Much like Sendak’s, Jonze’s world is an internal one that personifies both the naivety and complexity of a young mind in a complicated world full of emotions and people and obligations. That last word, by the way, is another one a nine-year-old does not yet know but is, unfortunately, subjected to.
The island with the wild things is a vision somewhere between Jim Henson and Salvador Dali, both furry and futile, full of sand and forest alike. Upon Max’s arrival, he avoids a grisly, wild feeding through storytelling, proclaiming himself a king and conqueror of vikings. It works, as the things are impressed, most especially Carol, voiced by James Gandolfini in what may be his most impressive performance next to Tony Soprano. It’s a blessing to get voice acting this involved, for viewer and filmmaker alike.
So the wild rumpus does, in fact, begin and so too begins the violence, all over again. Dirt clod fights and wood house-destroying fits put young Max in the middle of what might as well be a war zone of emotional turmoil. Adults will watch with eyes half open, praying the young boy will not get hurt while their kids will marvel at the young hero’s bravado. After all, who watching hasn’t flown of his/her bike whilst flying down a hill their parents told them was “too big for you”? Who hasn’t paled around with the “older kids” only to get hurt? These are parts of growing up, just as the wild things are.
Above all, this film is a wild thing, with no real narrative arc to speak of and character development by way of emotional breakdowns and build-back-ups, mostly of Carol. The camera moves too much some times and there is more than one unnecessary indie pop-fused montage of running and time wasting. In terms of style, it’s all over this thing, and nearly drowns in it. But, then, how many auteurs’ (potential) masterpieces are ever perfect? Their imperfection is what makes us look back and ponder.
The wild things are Max and Max is Jonze and we, the viewers, are his wild things, all representing a part of youth that once was or still can be.
Are you going to see WTWTA ?