This past month we've had the Max suit from Where the Wild Things Are at the office. It's hung in front of my desk (kinda creepy when no one's in it), and now it's in the front window at 826.
It's funny, people walk by and say "I'll bet that's not the real suit."
I feel a little sad when I hear them say things like that. I want to charge them with being fuddy-duddies.
I mean, really, even if it's the not original (which it is one of the few Max suits—Max really wore them out during filming), why not enjoy the magic that wearing ears, paw pads, and some scraggly whiskers can bring?
This movie has created a territorial feeling in us adults. People have lashed out with love and anger at the metamorphosis of Sendak's beloved childhood book. We all remember dragging it around with baby blankets or (insert favorite stuffed animal here) and I think that physical sense of belonging with a story is something special. Admittedly, Philip Roth, while I've loved your books, you didn't quite manage to make it to carrying American Pastoral around with my security bathrobe-status.