Less is more

Where the Wild Things Are
PG, Nationwide

James Gandolfini is the one called Carol who, when we first meet him, is in the midst of a destructive tantrum, destroying the Not Wild Things’ homes, although we never find out why, just as we never find out why the Not Wild Things are so unhappy and discontented generally. It is bewildering but not in an emotionally complex or troublesome way. It’s bewildering in a narratively confused, narratively lost, we-never-figured-out-what-we-wanted-all-this-extra-stuff-to-add-up-to sort of way. As for Gandolfini, we know it can’t have been easy going about in the suit, but do we have to hear so much of that Tony Soprano-style heavy breathing? It’s like he’s giving Carmela a good seeing to in there.

You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if it stood up as a story in its own right, but it doesn’t. It is also spectacularly uneventful. Long periods pass without much happening at all, beyond a lot of whining, and there is no ‘wild rumpus’ as such, just a dirt-clod fight that goes on for ever without really having anything to do with the price of fish.

The ending? Sentimental hogwash. Carol cries. Max cries. Max’s mum cries. It’s all horribly over-egged. It might even be over-Eggered.

Look, as I said, but feel obliged to repeat because of your poor attention issues, this is too much of a personal thing for me, but you may be different. Also, kids might like it but, then, what do they know? They push beads up their noses. What is the lesson in all this? That less is more, I suppose, unless you are considering buying me a Christmas present — why wouldn’t you? — in which case more is more, a lot more is a lot more, and diamonds are always, always good.