If you have any suicidal tendencies at all, I would strongly recommend against viewing the film, Where The Wild Things Are based on the book written by Maurice Sendak. Despite what some of the readers of this blog think, I have relatively sound mental health, but I almost shot myself in the parking lot as I left this movie and during the film, I attempted to hang myself three times with a noose made out of a twizzler.
Aside from the fact that this somewhat odd version of Maurice Sendak’s story plunged me into an abyss from which I almost did not return, I did like the film. The ‘Wild Things’ or as I would more accurately describe them based on the movie’s interpretation – ‘the extremely, extremely, way extremely, super extremely melancholy things’ – are like people without any pretense. They are creatures without any emotional defenses. They lack the human shellac of a hearty ho ho! Every moment in their lives is an excruciatingly honest moment. They say exactly what they are feeling and they are almost always feeling intense emotional pain.
“No one ever listens to me.”
“Why are you talking to him and not me?”
“You like him more than me don’t you?”
“Is she your favorite?”
“Why do we do everything his way?”
etc, etc, etc…
The big birdy creatures in this re-telling of Sendaks’ story, were clearly not raised by German protestants on the High Plains of Kansas. Their dads never mentioned the stiff upper lip and their mothers never taught them how to feign delight at a plateful of Aunt Margaret’s lima beans just for the sake of family peace.
Instead, The Wild Things are all a bunch of Eeyores and even though Max tries very hard to turn things around by playing the roles of Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, Owl and Christopher Robin all at the same time, he cannot stop the overwhelming tidal wave of hurt and resentment flowing towards him from these creatures.
We never learn why Max’s creatures are in so much pain. It could be that they all represent different characters in Max’s life. It could be that they are symbols for the selfish ‘out of control’ beast that Max must leave behind if he is to find peace. It could be that they are just manic depressive figures that everyone must combat on a daily basis. Whatever they are, there is one thing that seems to cure them, if only temporarily, and that is sleeping in a pile. If they could just all curl up together, they were suddenly able to get along… if only for a few hours.
I have to agree with the potency of this ‘sleeping in a pile’ prescription. It may be one of life’s cure-alls. It made me think of camping, when my whole family sleeps close together in a tent.. or when my boys were small and regularly slept in our bed. Sleeping in a pile…even though there isn’t much actual sleeping that happens due to the the pile part – there is a lot of intrinsic joy in a mass of sleeping bodies curled up beside you. You can reach out and pull them close, tuck in the covers, wipe the sweaty curls off their foreheads, all whilst attempting to pull the elbows out of your back, the foot out of your neck and breathe in the contentment of a family at peace…
Until the next morning when someone remembers…
You don’t ever listen to me….
You don’t like me do you?…
Why are you staring at me that way?…
He’s your favorite isn’t he?…
The magic of the sleeping pile never seems to last very long.
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