I wanted to like the film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are. I really did.
A few days ago, I finally got around to seeing it at a budget theatre in Milwaukee, and I left happy knowing that I only paid $2 to see it.
Visually, it was borderline surreal and fantastic to watch, but the embellished storyline lost me. I’ll grant that I am a memeber of the elitist school of the-book-is-always-better-than-the-movie persuasion; however, this film stands as testament to the fact that less is often more, as exemplified by the original children’s story. Take James Gandolfini’s Carol, for instance, who crossed the line to become a whiny character who lost my sympathy very early into the film. By the time the big tearjearker scene arrived, I—who am a crier, to put it mildly—failed to have watery eyes, let alone eke out a tear. I cried when Ben (He was a good cow) died in Barnyard for christ’s sake.
It was a worthy effort, but still something of a bastardization in my opinion.
Saving Grace: Karen O and the Kids’ impeccable contribution to the soundtrack, though I would expect nothing less from M’lady.
