…separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream…?
As a longtime lover of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (and, until last night, only a one-time reader of the Roald Dahl children’s novel it was based on), I had been deeply suspicious about Tim Burton’s new screen adaptation from the beginning, but word of mouth plus superlative reviews convinced me that I must see it, and my expectations were high.
I was disappointed.
I didn’t hate the movie, mind you. I just didn’t think it was all that great. In particular, I felt Johnny Depp’s take on Wonka was way off. Too cold, too misanthropic. Rereading the book last night confirmed this for me.
All of this brings me to my point… after seeing the new film on Sunday afternoon, we decided it was time to bust out the sugar-coated-acid-trip Gene Wilder version that night. And we figured our 2-year-old might like it. But we had no idea just how much he’d like it. He’s watched it at least 15 times in the past 48 hours. For the last two days the first thing he’s said upon waking is “Wonka! Wonka!” and it’s the last thing he’s done before bed. (Of course we don’t give him everything he wants… but he’s learning the value of tenacity at an early age.)
As a result of these round-the-clock screenings, I naturally have much of the music going through my head over and over and over and over… which brings us back to the beginning of this post.
(Oh… in case you’re wondering, it’s the candy man.)