Don't get me wrong. I abhor the wastefully prolonged marketing gimmick known as "childhood." To shelter children from the horrors of the world is to train them to turn a blind eye on the systemic violence that underpins their way of life. When Woody Allen imagined his adolescent avatar outside the principal's office dismissing human achievement as worthless muddle because of the impending supernova of our sun, we laughed at the absurdity.
Nearly 40 years later in Spike Jonze's "Where the Wild Things Are," this distant catastrophe is sufficient justification for a very creative, special boy to run amok, mope about it, and have his existence mistaken for engaging drama. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to protect your kids. But I can't recommend suffering them through the limpid, self-indulgent non-plot that confusingly bears a title and boasts a full blown narrative.
Let us not argue whether this movie had some deeper meaning. I'm sure many will, adamantly, as if for a tenuous justification for the existence of this cr**.
Let it be known that "Where the Wild Things Are" conveys the message that sometimes it is necessary to be lonely, that others will not always return our love, and yet we must not bite them for it. It's a hard, hard lesson to learn and a lot of great literature and film has tried to instill it.
"Where the Wild Things Are" perfectly exemplifies the mistake of the neo-folk, pseudo-country banjo plucker or the Indie (can't even say "self-indulgent" or "pretentious" Indie because Indies have totally co-opted the sport of Indie bashing)—the mistake that zealousness or good intentions or the candid and candy-stylized confessions of how hard it is to live in the 21st century are the only criteria for good art!
They seem to forget where talent fits into the deal. They seem to forget that outside their own tremendous guilt complexes resides a world imperiled by a surfeit of good intentions and a deficit of sound thought.
And yet we say nothing. We munch popcorn and make up excuses why the movie is magic. The cinematography is plenty expressive but disappointing considering the budget and the technology on hand and what past directors have done with so much less. The music sounded like a Nature Nazi frolic for kids—stripped down instrumentals, voices in unison, an impersonation of a tribal dance by sweet choir-children.
The plot... what plot? I wouldn't waste one line for synopsis because it would be a line duller than this one. Now, on to a better movie!
In "Where the Wild Things Are," as nostalgic readers know, a boy escapes from a traumatic episode into a lush dream-world where he is king.
This plot summary can also be applied to one of the best films in David Lynch's oeuvre: "Lost Highway," 1997! This gripping 21st century gothic noir stars Bill Pullman as a sexually frustrated wife-murderer who fabricates a dream world—"I like to remember things my own way"—in which he stars as a mechanic in a Hollywood-esque crime-porno film. Of course, in this imaginary world, direct confrontation with the object of his desire burns the confabulation and spins him down a highway of nightmares.
Now, why is this better? One, "Lost Highway," like Harryhausen epics, offers an escape that will last longer than an afternoon nature-hike.
Two, while "Lost Highway" and "Wild Things" both critique the cause and justification of escapism, only Lost Highway successfully does so with a zesty philosophical profundity that keeps you asking questions.
Three, children should be exposed to the wildness manifest in Hollywood commercial gambits, the exploitative porn-obsessed consumer culture and the style of a true auteur.