Wild Thing

I’m a bit of a reactionary when it comes to TV. While not considering myself a counter-revolutionary—since I recognise and admire the many excellent programmes out there—in general I find there’s too much stuff on too many channels, and most of it is absolute rubbish.

We didn’t have a television for much of the time while I was growing up (something for which I shall be eternally grateful—except when striving in vain to answer pub quiz questions on children’s TV programmes), so my childhood memories are skewed even further towards books than they would have been otherwise.

I was horrified when I heard of plans to make Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are into a film. Another cherished world blighted by an abominable televisual millstone! That Spike Jonze is directing gives me a little hope, but still, I can’t help feeling deeply uneasy. Improving on the book would be impossible, as would simply transcribing it, so there will inevitably be both expansion and interpretation. However, this wasn’t intended as a screed on cinematic adaptations, so I shall return to the point in hand.

When I read books with illustrations in these days, they tend to be comics, not children’s books. But Sendak’s masterpiece is easily the equal of any Watchmen—witty, sharp, and with a keen insight into the real experience of childhood. Its ability to speak to both parents and children alike is rooted in truth: the truth that children are anarchic and badly-behaved; that they cause trouble because it delights them to do so; but also that such anarchy can never give them everything they need.

Reading it these days, I find in it so much of who I was, when I first crossed paths with it—and so much that I want to hang on to. Max, who wore his wolf suit and made mischief, was someone I could identify with. I still do.