This afternoon, as pouring rain turned to fat, wet snowflakes (October 18th! Please, universe, no) I took my children to see Where the Wild Things Are. I’ve been really excited for this movie – when we were at Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs the preview made me cry. I’ve been listening to the soundtrack and generally counting days until it came out. I love Dave Eggers, I love Spike Jonze, I love Maurice Sendak. Win win, right?
It did not disappoint. Not at all. I found Where the Wild Things Are to be beautiful, wistful, ambiguous, and full of soul. The wild things themselves were stunning, both otherworldly and deeply human in their expressiveness. The movie left me with many thoughts, but most of all I think it was a melodic riff on the desperate desire to belong. On the fundamental human need to find a tribe.
It was also, of course, about childhood. The metaphor of Max sailing his own craft was gorgeously expressed. There were parallel stories about how we act out because we are scared. The fact that almost all bad behavior has an understandable root cause has been on my mind lately. I am realizing how much better served we would all be by approaching with compassion those we love when they are being childish or having a tantrum or crying inexplicably. Jonze weaves lovely, echoing stories about the way we are sometimes unable to control our own reactions and emotions, and the genuine ways we all strive to cope with and make amends for that.
The movie has both text and exquisite, sensitive subtext. Like Bronte’s madwoman in the attic, the wild things serve as metaphor for Max’s own demons. He is afraid of them, he conquers them with fake bravado, he breaks down and shows his own fear, and finally he learns to understand and empathize with them. It is at the end, after being figuratively reborn from one of the wild things and from his own devils, that Max decides to return home. And what a return it is: I had tears running down my face watching Catherine Keener’s portrayal of an honest, imperfect mother.
I was surprised, in the days leading up to the movie, by the debate that it sparked. After hearing several people say it was too scary and too mature for children, I decided to read some of the commentary. The Newsweek review is thought-provoking. Midway through, the article poses a question that I stopped to really think about:
But what if that intensity, that asymmetry, is exactly why kids should see Wild Things? What if the very thing that makes the movie “controversial” is also what makes it necessary, now more than ever?
The article goes on to muse more generally about the modern-day control we exert over our children and what kinds of losses, intentional or otherwise, this has entailed for childhood. It references an article from the New York Review of Books by Michael Chabon entitled Manhood for Amateurs: The Wildness of Childhood. I read this article this summer but found it even more provocative and wise when I reread it today.
Chabon’s essay is a concerned obituary for the freedom – “the Wildness” – that he enjoyed as a child. He grieves his children’s loss of independence, autonomy, and adventure. His theory – and his descriptions of his own childhood support it – is that only by being given freedom to roam and experiment and, sometimes, get lost, do children develop resilience and creativity. In more abstract terms, he posits that as parents have taken over the navigation for our children the vital lessons they should glean from their travels suffer.
His words rang in my head as I watched Where the Wild Things Are this afternoon, continually sneaking glances at my spellbound children’s faces, lit by the flickering screen.
What is the impact of the closing down of the Wilderness on the development of children’s imaginations? This is what I worry about the most….Art is a form of exploration, of sailing off into the unknown alone, heading for those unmarked places on the map. If children are not permitted—not taught—to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world of adventure, of stories, of literature itself?
I share Chabon’s concerns and also his frustration at the inability to provide space for our children, literal and figurative room for them to grow their own wings, minds, and, indeed imaginations. He notes that even if he let his daughter go ride her bike alone, as he would like to do, there are no other children for her to share the journey with. By definition this makes the experience less rich for her. I know that immersing children in the 2 hour wonderland of Jonze’s movie is of course not even a drop in the bucket of experiences we’d like them to have, but maybe every tiny story helps. Certainly to be thinking about it, while depressing, seems better than simply accepting the status quo of modern day parenting.
The cinematography of this movie was impressive, no doubt, but it seemed to be missing a "spark" of some kind… maybe it was just too low energy from beginning to end for me (or at least after the first ten minutes)
I so agree with Chabon. My childhood was full of roaming and sometimes getting lost. I would let my son wander too, but wandering alone is nowhere near the same as wandering with friends. How will children learn to be on their own, to deal with borderline situations, to rely on their friends, if they are always guarded? This worries and saddens me too.