The movie, Where the Wild Things Are, is far more complicated than the book, not that I’ve read the book in a long, long time. The wild monsters in the movie have psychological and emotional “issues,” and expect the little boy, Max, to be therapist as well as king. He tries but only manages to muddy things up even more. I enjoyed it anyway; the forts they built were like something Andy Goldsworthy would create, and the kid in me loved the wild rumpus of it all.
My dogs love to go into a frenzy of barking for the sheer joy of making a lot of noise–I’ve got wild things of my own right here at home, just as Maurice Sendak has a German Shepherd from New Skete who’s allowed to jump up on the furniture. I looked at those dogs with their pointed ears, grubby fur, and sharp teeth, and said, “Let the wild rumpus start!” I began to sound off just like Max in the movie, “Whoooo, whoooo, hooooo,” and they jumped right in, barking and howling. We really got into it, making a deafening rumpus that left all our ears ringing afterward.