If there is one movie that I’m so glad I forked my nine bucks (well, eighteen, considering my husband and I both saw it) over for—and would readily do it again in a heartbeat if we managed to get a babysitter again—it’s Where the Wild Things Are.
Though I’ve been a Spike Jonze fan for years, and was enthralled, delighted and even bemused by both Adaptation and Being John Malkovich, nothing had prepared me for the wonder—and sometimes even a bit of terror—induced by Wild Things. Sure, I love the book; my daughter and I love to “gnash our terrible teeth” and act like the monsters.
But this… boy, this was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And I’m telling you, as much as I love both fantasy and puppet movies (Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal…hell, anything from Jim Henson Studios), this was a whole new ball of wax (or, pile of monsters, as it was).