Where the Wild Things Are crashes into theaters today, carried by the hugest wave of hype imaginable.
The reviews have come out (some good, some less good), but at this point it seems irrelevant–the film’s publicity has been so comprehensive as to render a 800-word review absurd. A MoMA show, an HBO documentary, a civic celebration, and then there are the tie-ins–a soundtrack by Karen O, fine, but a novelization? What are you doing, Dave Eggers? And anyone who doesn’t feel grossed out by the “wild things” Opening Ceremony collection is a terrible person.
The chemical reaction of childhood nostalgia, sterling hipness, and serious critical attention has yielded something totally odious.
All of which is too bad: because I really liked Where the Wild Things Are.
I found it exquisitely weird, and thought it successfully conveyed the blend of intensity and confusion that characterizes childhood experiences. Also the wild things are cool looking.
I recommend it in spite of the $610 wolf suit.
