We Love You So – Where The Wild Things Are – Spike Jonze

If you’re looking to strike up a relationship with Vladimir Nabokov, it’s probably best to start with Lolita, which has an opening chapter so beautiful it will make you pee your pants, or Pnin, a short ‘n sweet novel about a loopy professor. There’s also the author’s memoir Speak, Memory, which includes lovely descriptions of the writer’s boyhood in Saint Petersburg, and Pale Fire, a crafty novel/poem/exegesis explosion. Any of these books would constitute a fine starting point.

Here, on the other hand, is what NOT to begin with: the recently released The Original of Laura (Dying Is Fun), a volume comprised of the index cards upon which Nabokov wrote his last novel. Or, at least, the notes for his last novel. The Original of Laura is not a fully-fleshed work, but rather an unfinished experiment that will be baffling to all but the most steadfast Nabokov fans. If you fall into this category—or you just enjoy the odd literary puzzle—by all means, dive in.

It’s hard to imagine the unease that adults felt about Where the Wild Things Are upon its release. While so much was changing across the spectrum of society in 1963, how could a now-beloved children’s book ruffle so many feathers? To understand the climate of that time, we must consider the popular children’s books that preceded Sendak’s revolutionary work.

“Significantly there were fewer child protagonists than child surrogates in the forms of animals and mechanical personalities,” wrote children’s librarian and scholar Sheila Egoff in 1981. “But when children did appear, there was no question as to the tone of security, affection, and familial comfort that surrounded them.” The mere fact that Max was a mischievous child, rather than a monkey or a duck, represented a subtle break with the prevailing order. Egoff paints us a picture in her fascinating collection of writings, Thursday’s Child:

The picture books of the first two-thirds of this century reveal a single vision of a secure childhood and an abiding social order. So sure did the society of the time feel about its values– safe, placid, and hopefully enriching– that creators of books for very young children could depict them implicity rather than explicitly. The picture books show a gentle control, usually played out with animals as exemplars. H. A. Rey’s monkey, Curious George (1941) ends up in a zoo because of his pranks, but it is pictured as a pleasant, happy playground where George can indulge in his monkeyshines. Marjorie Flack’s duck Ping in The Story about Ping (1933) receives a gentle spank on his tail for being late. Both animals have an order to return to after their escapades: George to “the man in the yellow hat” and Pink to “the wise one-eyed boat.” The concept of order in Ludwig Bemelmans’s Madeline (1939)–”twelve little girls in two straight lines”–gives a feeling of reassurance and security rather than regimentation.

Above all, children were to be protected, and writers and illustrators, however different their themes and styles, were unanimous on this point. That these protectors were sincere is unquestionable, but, even more importantly, their views were reinforced by the adult world in general. This consensus was shattered in 1963 with the appearance of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and it would appear today that not “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” could restore that phallanxed viewpoint.

While the illustrations disturbed those adults who saw the “Wild Things” as ferociously threatening rather than humorously subservient to Max’s will, the extreme reaction to Sendak’s work intimated that there was more at stake than a matter of interpretation of the pictures. As it turned out, this as yet unformulated anxiety was justified. Sendak’s underlying theme that a child has unconscious needs, frustrations, and fears unsettled society’s hitherto conceived ideals of early childhood and the book itself broke the stereotypic mold that had held for almost a hundred years.

What made Sendak an innovator was that he expressed this catharsis for the preschool children through their own medium, the picture book. He also caught, very early and creatively, a general trend of society which was to rise to the fore over the next two decades: an acceptance that the very young child matures more by sharing in the real and emotional world around it than by being protected from it.

Maurice Sendak’s good friend and contemporary, the late James Marshall, wrote and illustrated many popular children’s books in his time, including The Stupids*, a series which depicts the relentless confusion of the always-upbeat Stupid family through a series of comical oddball misadventures. Arguably the funniest of these is The Stupids Die– a title that aroused controversy amongst uptight parents and closed-minded librarians, and made the book a perrenial favorite on “Most Banned Books” lists. The Stupids Die is an altogether innocent celebration of foolishness: revolving around an electrical blackout that the Stupids naturally mistake for the end of it all, the family stumbles around their house in the dark until Grandfather Stupid stops by for a visit:

“Welcome to heaven,” said Mr. Stupid.

“This isn’t heaven,” said Grandfather.
“This is Cleveland.”

“This may sound stupid,” said Buster.
“But I think this is our living room.”

Maurice reveals his deep admiration for The Stupids Die and its controverial title in an interview promoting his posthumous collaboration with Marshall, Swine Lake:

“That’s the only thing I truly envy Jim for,” Sendak laments. “Deep envy. I think The Stupids Die is the best title ever. I can’t forgive him for having that title. I used to tell him that. I bought the original poster for the book, and it hangs in one of my rooms.”

Swine Lake is illustrated by Maurice and based on Marshall’s manuscript about a wolf who hatches a plan to devour a ballet comapny comprised entirely of pigs, only to end up discovering his admiration for the art of dance and joins them on stage. It’s Three Little Pigs meets Billy Elliot. When asked, in the same interview, if the wolf learns a lesson at the end of Swine Lake, Maurice snorts disdainfully and responds: “I never wrote a book where I taught a lesson. And the wolf is going to eat those pigs eventually. He just doesn’t do it in this book.”

* Yes, Marshall’s books served as inspiration for the ill-conceived John Landis-directed 1996 Tom Arnold vehicle The Stupids, but don’t let that ruin it for you– his books share almost nothing in common with that wreck of a movie.