Where the Wild Things Are has one major problem: it has the emotional depth and plot of a ten-page book. It's about a twelve-year-old runaway who interacts with creatures ranging in emotional age from three to forty-five, so needless to say, the scope and the conflicts are limited. Instead of war we get dirt-clod fights. Instead of empire-building we get forts. Nobody needs a heart, or a brain, or nerve: they just need to get along.

Still, it's a work of art that makes the output of half of New York's galleries look like chicken fat. The cinematography is gorgeous, the puppetry is breathtaking, the script has genius moments, and the soundtrack deserves the Academy Award. Find a seat far from kids and Michael Bay fans and you'll be Where the Smart Things Are.