I found the movie to be terrifying in places. If I'd been a child, I'd have run screaming from the theater. I had no problem with the scariness of the book as a child. The movie's a whole 'nother (wait for it...) monster.
Max is entirely too old in the movie. No kid old enough to be in a class where the teacher is explaining the sun's death (5th grade, 10yo, minimum) would wear a wolf suit. Max should have been about 3-5. He came across as creepy and delusional at the age in the movie, not wildly imaginative at the age in the book. Giving all the monsters emotional baggage that adults would struggle with was also a let-down for me. I enjoyed the lighter parts of the movie, of which there were tragically few. I would think that if I invented a whole other world populated by creatures of my choosing in order to get away from the troubles of my life, the creatures wouldn’t be paralyzed by abandonment issues. But what the hell do I know about creativity OR mental disorders.
The end of the movie ticked me off. The kid runs out of the house into the night, disappears for hours, and when he strolls back in the middle of the night, what does his mom do? My mom would have beat my butt. His mom hugs him and feeds him cake. Cake? Cake! That’s what’s wrong with America.
I just thought it was adults positing their issues on a child. A blog of a grandfather who took his grandson to the movie expressed my opinion perfectly: "Perhaps the problem is that the film was written more for the amusement of the writers than for children." Since the book was supposed to be for children and is more about a child’s imagination, rather than musings on metaphysical loneliness and the loss of innocence, plus overcoming the intense emotions of childhood, I found the movie to be its own creature entirely. It’s sorta like “Die Hard With a Vengeance” was originally a script called “Simon Says” and they said, “Hell, if we cast Bruce Willis, we’ll make a fortune.”
“Where the Wild Things Are” wasn’t “bad” per se, just false advertising. They used the look of the book, but missed the point. They could have done that with any kid and any creatures from his imagination, but the visual appeal of the movie is really the only thing it shares with the book. I mean, I get the fact that the book is mainly pictures and that they needed to add much to flesh out a feature film. Mr. Jonze, having cut his chops in music videos, could and easily has captured lyrical, beautiful, and sometimes even haunting images, but it was just damn miserable. I refuse to confuse moroseness with deeper meaning, or, if it’s there, I say that’s not what it should have been.
I loved that book as a kid and would much preferred to have seen something that transported me back to a time where I could whisk myself away using my imagination. If I wanted to think about the deeper difficulties in life, I wouldn’t use my imagination, I’d just consider my life as an adult. No thanks.
Whereby our intrepid adventurer goes places, sees...um...stuff, and roundly mocks everything, himself most of all. Usually.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Kabul
The storm came from the west,
grey and black and blue and glorious,
a reverse nightfall.
An anvil cloud,
ferocious in its pregnant beauty,
dwarfs the mountain cradle.
Above, the pale blue stretches to its lazy limit
with no idea of the barrage to come
But I am shielded,
protected by a warm embrace of sunshine,
as the storm, the wolf, skirts and prods
but the shepherdess' pen holds fast
and, safe, I am simply struck by such natural sublimity.
A torrent pierces another portion of the pen.
While I am secure and serene and unaware
and staring at the wrong threat, my head in the clouds,
brains and fingers and eyes and ears and
rent meat come plodding down.
A man, a bomb, an abattoir.
A baby cries on mother's corpse.
Indifferent, the skies are pretty.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/19/world/asia/19afghan.html
grey and black and blue and glorious,
a reverse nightfall.
An anvil cloud,
ferocious in its pregnant beauty,
dwarfs the mountain cradle.
Above, the pale blue stretches to its lazy limit
with no idea of the barrage to come
But I am shielded,
protected by a warm embrace of sunshine,
as the storm, the wolf, skirts and prods
but the shepherdess' pen holds fast
and, safe, I am simply struck by such natural sublimity.
A torrent pierces another portion of the pen.
While I am secure and serene and unaware
and staring at the wrong threat, my head in the clouds,
brains and fingers and eyes and ears and
rent meat come plodding down.
A man, a bomb, an abattoir.
A baby cries on mother's corpse.
Indifferent, the skies are pretty.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/19/world/asia/19afghan.html
Thursday, May 13, 2010
To Bank of America
"I would like my $50 'Foreign Service Fee' removed from my account. I have a good-paying job as a contractor in Afghanistan. If using my credit card, which I've had for a very long time, even though the service and rates have gotten worse and worse, is going to incur ridiculous fees, I will cut it up. I'm sure other financial insitutions will be glad to have my business. Poor business model. "
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