The Wild Things

I haven't seen the movie. And I'm not sure I want to. Here's why:

"Where the Wild Things Are" is one of those special, sentimental books tied closely to my childhood. It was one of the picture books my Dad read to me regularly - along with "Goodnight Moon" and "The Winter Bear." I have such fond, delicious memories of snuggling under the covers and hearing my Dad's voice resonate in my lamp-lit room.

The reason I might choose to not see the movie is because I'm not sure I want my memory, or my concept of the book, to change. I don't want the images of the movie to eclipse the image of my Dad in a rocking chair at my bedside. I don't want the illustrations - stark in color, but so alive - to be replaced by the movie's images.

I guess it's like any book-turned-movie. I can no longer remember how I originally pictured Harry Potter when I read the first two books. I can't remember how my imagined Legolas spoke or how my imagined Frodo walked. And it is impossible for me to picture anyone but Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. My original "book" images have been erased and replaced completely by the movie depictions. And the truth is, I traded those images without a struggle and really without a second thought.

So what's so different about "Where the Wild Things Are"?

A good friend emailed me a link to this article this morning which got me thinking. The article touches on some amazing themes of the book/movie. Some of the themes I had recognized (especially as I read the book to my own children) like loneliness and unconditional love. Others I had missed. Does the exploration and development of these themes make me want to watch the movie? Not really.

What worries me is that somehow the movie will taint my pure reading of the book. I don't want images of the boy screaming at his mom and the mom screaming back to confuse and complicate a message that, at its heart, is simple and powerfully moving on its own.

Perhaps it simply comes down to that I'm not ready to trade in my personal "Where the Wild Things Are" childhood experience just yet. Perhaps I want to hold on to those wild rumpus pictures and let my imagination fill in the blanks. Perhaps the illustration of the still-hot bowl of soup, and all it stands for, is enough for me.