My seven-year-old grandson and I went to see the new movie Where the Wild Things Are, based on the children's book by Maurice Sendak. We had read the book together before, so I thought that this would be a nice thing for just the two of us to do.
We got our popcorn trays with small drink and little bag of gummy fruit candy, and went to our seats. I had to use my Swiss Army Knife to open the bag of fruity candy, but other than that we settled in for a great show.
The film starts out in Max's neighborhood. Max, for me, was a little too tall and a bit too angst-ridden for the character in the book. He loses snowball fights with the other kids and seems out of place in his own home. But eventually he does get to cross the water to where the wild things are. Now, things will get interesting, I thought.
Well, the Wild Things were great. They looked like they had just walked off the pages of the book. But then they started to talk. Such morose musings.
I glanced at my grandson who seemed more interested in his popcorn than the movie. Usually he laughs and thoroughly enjoys children's movies, but not this time. The little children behind us were getting squirmy. The whole theater seemed let down. Perhaps the problem is that the film was written more for the amusement of the writers than for children. It was their imagination that we got to see, what they imagined went on where the wild things are. In the book, the child gets to make up the story of what happens once the wild rumpus begins.
Even with children's literature, sometimes the book is better than the movie.
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