If you've been waiting for an opportunity to sit in a dark, cold theater plagued with thoughts of gouging your eyes out, then 'Where the Wild Things Are' is the movie for you!
As for the rest of you who'd rather keep your eyesight and maintain your sanity: SAVE YOUR MONEY and AVOID this movie like you'd avoid self-mutilation, axe murderers, or politicians. I cannot begin to expound on how mortifying this movie is and explain the millions of reasons you should pass on any opportunity to expose yourself to such a monstrosity.
Maurice Sendak concocted an inventive and imaginative adventure when he wrote 'Where the Wild Things Are.' I sure hope Mr. Sendak haunts whoever took his brilliant, Caldecott-award winning classic and transformed it into a dribbling puddle of psychobabble goo because the makers of this unbelievably boring film deserve nothing less than eternal shame!
We've been looking forward to seeing this movie for a several months as it has long been a favorite bedtime story of my own little wild thing, Brock. In the story, Max, a precocious little boy, is exiled to his room after tormenting the household and sassing his mother. Sent to bed without supper. Then his imagination takes over and creates an amazing dreamworld filled with ferocious and curious monsters who are dazzled by Max and make him king of the wild things. They swing from trees and parade about the jungle. And finally, Max realizes that he'd rather be at home, where someone loved him best of all, than be king of the wild things. In the end, he sails back to the safety of his own room where his dinner is waiting for him.
What should have been a magical, imaginative movie filled with color and fun and care-free jubilation turned out to be a torturous two hours, drowning in self-loathing characters battling any number of psychological demons and a monochromatic setting set to dull, easy-acoustic FM radio. Hollywood's diatribe to the truly oppressed.
The only redeeming quality of the whole experience had nothing to do with the movie, but the theater itself, thanks to the red and green strip lighting illuminating the staircase. Thank heavens *something* caught the interest of my little wild thing because the movie held ZERO interest for either of us. We stayed, harboring the hope that the movie would get better. In hindsight, this was a hopeless and foolish endeavor.
Put your money towards the purchase of the remarkable story book and FORGET the movie altogether!
As for the rest of you who'd rather keep your eyesight and maintain your sanity: SAVE YOUR MONEY and AVOID this movie like you'd avoid self-mutilation, axe murderers, or politicians. I cannot begin to expound on how mortifying this movie is and explain the millions of reasons you should pass on any opportunity to expose yourself to such a monstrosity.
Maurice Sendak concocted an inventive and imaginative adventure when he wrote 'Where the Wild Things Are.' I sure hope Mr. Sendak haunts whoever took his brilliant, Caldecott-award winning classic and transformed it into a dribbling puddle of psychobabble goo because the makers of this unbelievably boring film deserve nothing less than eternal shame!
We've been looking forward to seeing this movie for a several months as it has long been a favorite bedtime story of my own little wild thing, Brock. In the story, Max, a precocious little boy, is exiled to his room after tormenting the household and sassing his mother. Sent to bed without supper. Then his imagination takes over and creates an amazing dreamworld filled with ferocious and curious monsters who are dazzled by Max and make him king of the wild things. They swing from trees and parade about the jungle. And finally, Max realizes that he'd rather be at home, where someone loved him best of all, than be king of the wild things. In the end, he sails back to the safety of his own room where his dinner is waiting for him.
What should have been a magical, imaginative movie filled with color and fun and care-free jubilation turned out to be a torturous two hours, drowning in self-loathing characters battling any number of psychological demons and a monochromatic setting set to dull, easy-acoustic FM radio. Hollywood's diatribe to the truly oppressed.
The only redeeming quality of the whole experience had nothing to do with the movie, but the theater itself, thanks to the red and green strip lighting illuminating the staircase. Thank heavens *something* caught the interest of my little wild thing because the movie held ZERO interest for either of us. We stayed, harboring the hope that the movie would get better. In hindsight, this was a hopeless and foolish endeavor.
Put your money towards the purchase of the remarkable story book and FORGET the movie altogether!
