I’m glad I didn’t review Where the Wild Things Are the day after I saw it, or even the week after. My review would’ve been wrong.

See, it took me over a week to realize that I didn’t accept the movie on its own terms. I sat down wanting one thing, and when I got another, I decided it was the movie’s fault.

I realize now that I wanted an Aristotelian plot: I wanted one action to lead inexorably to another, and I wanted the story to end with demonstrable change. I don’t expect this structure from everything—I love Virginia Woolf and David Lynch because they ruminate and wander—but frankly, I’ve been so influenced by Pixar’s elegant approach to narrative that I’ve started to expect it from every animated film (I give Miyazaki a pass, since his loose storytelling is a well-known part of his style) . Without being aware of it, I’ve come to accept Pixar’s approach as “the way it should be done.”

My bias kept me from appreciating Where The Wild Things Are. It is decidedly not a film about logically connected actions leading to change. Instead, it’s about a kid who feels things—big, messy,confusing things—and still gets to come home to a mother who loves him. It’s a comforting nod of support to children who have worried that their bad behavior will make their parents abandon them. It’s an assertion that it’s okay to act out sometimes… that nothing will change if you lose control.

How lovely. How resonant with what I wanted to believe as a child and what I finally believe as an adult: Love doesn’t disappear just because you’re human. Your mom will still give you a sandwich, even if you got mad at her earlier in the day.

This point wouldn’t land so powerfully if director Spike Jonze and his co-screenwriter Dave Eggers didn’t let Max, their young protagonist, roam around in his emotions.

After Max causes a giant scene at his house, he escapes into his imagination, which is populated by wild things… creatures who act out just like he does. We see fights, hugs, rowdy games, sudden tears, and laughter that turns instantly to rage. Moments tumble into each other, and collectively, they create a rich portrait of an emtional life.

(For more on this, please read Roommate Joe’s review. Anything else I could say would just be an echo of his insight.)

Reflecting on Where the Wild Things Are, I’m embarrassed that I missed its rich complexity the first time around. I strive to stay open to experience, and I can’t believe I carried that kind of bias into a theatre.

But at least I’ve shaken myself awake. Now I see that Where the Wild Things Are is a bold and tender evocation of an inner life. It says we can feel whatever we want to feel without being punished.

Where the Wild Things Are is not a Pixar movie. But it’s no less beautiful for that.