Some very good books were just never meant to be turned into movies. Sadly, you can now add Maurice Sendak’s 1963 classic “Where the Wild Things Are” to that list.
Spike Jonze, the immensely imaginative director of “Being John Malkovich” and “Adaptation,” has labored for many years with the best of intentions to turn Sendak’s slim volume, which contains only nine sentences of text over 37 pages, into a full-length feature.
On the plus side, he’s come up with a distinctive-looking, hand-hewn movie that goes a long way toward capturing the visual magic of Sendak’s drawings.
At the same time, in their overly earnest attempt to flesh Sendak’s story out to 100 minutes, Jonze and his co-screenwriter, novelist Dave Eggers, have laboriously spelled out motivations (divorce is bad!), elaborated back stories — and added reams of less-than-inspired dialogue.
Unfortunately, they haven’t supplied any kind of plot that would keep an adult like myself (who didn’t grow up on the book) fully engaged.
And I really wonder how kids will respond to a talky, neurosis-driven movie that’s this light on action.
That would seem to leave an ideal audience of Williamsburg hipsters trying to get in touch with their inner childhoods.
Maybe they will like the insipid indie-rock soundtrack.
The film starts promisingly (and with minimal dialogue) with 9-year-old Max (an adept performer allegedly named Max Records) being attacked in his snow fort while his older sister fails to come to his rescue.
The feral Max trashes her room, and responds with even more rage when he catches his overwhelmed single mom (Catherine Keener) snuggling with her boyfriend (the barely seen Mark Ruffalo).
Max dons a white wolf suit and bites his shocked mother.
In Sendak’s book, Mom puts Max (who is only 5) to bed and he begins his magical journey in his sleep.
Jonze has chosen to eschew animation (there is some subtle CGI) in favor of a more realistic approach, with an angry Max running off and sailing to a magical land (actually Australia).
There he encounters the Wild Things, which in this version are played by Henson puppeteers in 9-foot-high animatronic suits closely modeled on Sendak’s drawings.
I have no quarrel with this approach so far. But the creatures are less Sendak’s Wild Things than totally unscary Mild Things.
They sound very much like a commune of kvetchy old hippies who argue endlessly among themselves while committing random acts of childish pique.
The nominal leader of the pack, Carol, is ineffectual and self-doubting, so the Wild Things embrace Max’s claim that he’s a king. It’s fun for a while, when Max joins them in throwing clods of dirt at each other. (Don’t try this at home, kids.)
When the Wild Things resume their bickering, it’s not only the audience who grows restless. Unfortunately, 90 minutes have elapsed before Max, like Dorothy before him, finally realizes “there’s no place like home.”
Among those providing voices for the Wild Things (not always in perfect sync with the puppets) are Catherine O’Hara, Forest Whitaker, Lauren Ambrose and Chris Cooper.
Carol is voiced by James Gandolfini, an unfortunate choice whose distinctive nasal New Jersey whine kept making me wonder if (hope that?) Tony Soprano was going to pop out of the costume and whack the somewhat annoying Max.
So, fuhgeddabout “Where the Wild Things Are”? No, but brace yourself for a noble failure.
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