I absolutely adore “Where The Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak. I loved to roar my terrible roar and gnash my terrible teeth right along with Max, and “Let the wild rumpus start!” has been one of those quotes that has stuck with me all through my life.
It is quite useful.
I was thrilled when I first saw the trailer for Spike Jonze’s film adaptation of the book, but for one reason or another, I never made it to the theater to see it.
I’m glad I didn’t, though, because now I’ve read BOTH books before seeing the movie.
I’m just not sure if that’s a good thing.
My favorite thing about the picture book is Max. (Is a character a thing?) He embodies the spirit, innocence and pure joy of childhood. His imagination is inspiring, even if his naughty behavior is not. Max is fun. Max is the anti-adult.
Max in “The Wild Things” is different.
At first, we see the same old Max, causing trouble and having fun without thought to anyone around him. Max is pretty much what I’d classify as your typical boy (even though the book hints that he might have ADD or something). He is naughty, he is misunderstood, he is in his own world.
Then Max runs away and sets sail and lands in a faraway land where fun goes to die. In fact, fun is eaten by big, scary monsters. And goat boys.
Wild-Thing Max doesn’t escape to Imagination Land with wild rumpuses. Instead, he lands in Very Real Problems Land. The fun Max tries to have results in nothing but sad consequences.
This book was just OK. The cover was awesome and the beginning was fun. The middle and end – not so much.
I’ll probably watch the movie at home at some point, but I’m not itching to see it nearly as bad as I first was.
Up next: “I Am The Messenger,” by Markus Zusak
(New rules: I’m only including my star ratings on my “20## reads” pages from now on.)