Where the Depressed Things Are...

Like any other twenty-something, I eagerly counted down the days until the releaes of the Jonze WTWTA.

Karen O. enticed me with her siren sounds as I bathed in the glow of the trailer on TV and my computer over and over until the fateful day.

I bought my tickets online and ahead of schedule opening day. I arrived first and saved eight seats for my party.

I pretended to ignore the swarms of children who I was convinced were not the target audience of this film. And you know what? I was right.

While the break from technicolor candy coating was welcome and the soundtrack was appropriately visceral yet playful, the script was an atrocity.

I have trouble with most interpretations from book to film, but somehow I thought this would be the exception. Alas. Everyone makes their own internal interpretations when experiencing art. Though shades can be shared, most artistic experiences are highly personal. The leap between media is often too great to bridge for an entire generation.

Anywho, back to specifics. Sendak's original wild things seemed ferocious yet irreverant. Bellicose yet social. Jonze's wild things could be wild, but more often were overwhelmed.

Pleas of "make the sadness go away" and accusations of "you were supposed to take care of everything" were regurgitated throughout with a settling heaviness.

My wild things enjoyed their king but they were also able to take care of themselves and take a joke.

A nostalgic visit turned into a heavy drag through forced pathos without catharsis.

Boo.