We finally got around to watching Where the Wild Things Are.  I don’t remember the book that well, other than the illustrations, so I’m not sure how well it matches the story, but I’m enjoying the visual direction immensely.

But it’s a strange movie.  It’s anarchic and melancholic, poetic and disjointed, surface, silly, and cutting all at once.  Max is unapologetically unlikeable as a character, but his impotent frustration – the kind we all have when we’re kids – is authentic.  The monsters, while beautifully rendered, are so uncomfortably neurotic, so layered with barely hidden shame and hurt and angst, that I find myself cringing at their interactions.  It’s lovely to look at it, impressive and elegant, but I don’t want to be a part of their hurt.  It rings too true.  There’s too much damage here.