One of my favorite activities growing up was listening to stories on my pintsize, one-piece record player. I remember relaxing for hours as books came to life in my very own theater/bedroom. As a kid, I responded to intimacy of someone reading to me that wasn't at all the same as watching actors recreate characters — the warmth of sharing, of dreaming communally rather than simply being "entertained." To this day, when I think of The Phantom Tollbooth or Black Beauty, I think of those voices that read me those stories, as if we shared the discovery together.

Of all my records, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, read by its author, Roald Dahl, was my favorite. I still have it in my collection, and in anticipation of seeing the new film, I pulled out the dusty LP, fired up my antique record player, and listened to the first side. The recording is simple — no sound effects or music cues — a contrast to the audiobooks of today, which often feature orchestral scores and celebrity narrators. Most striking, though, was Dahl's voice. Gentle and warm, with a kind British accent, he comes through with an ease and comfort, knowing that the words alone will transport the listener. There's no emphasis or force, no performance, just the simple joy of a fantastic tale.

In this recording, when we are first introduced to Willy Wonka, you detect a soft smile on Dahl's face, a twinkle in his voice, that hints at the anticipation of the author about to share one of his great creations. Wonka, in turn, from his first appearance, is a welcoming creature, thrilled to show the children around the factory. Of course, it doesn't take much to realize that he is simply an extension of Dahl: both knowing and innocent, mischievous and wise.

There is an element of darkness in this record, a clever wickedness, but it's without malice, and conveyed with a sense of wonder. Wonka is presented without great animation, he comes across more as the sane force in an insane world, the antithesis to parents who allow their children to grow obese, spoiled, or obsessed with television. This ease of presentation probably explains why I remember understanding all the social criticism as a kid, but still, the story didn't seem macabre to me. Sure, Augustus Gloop was sucked up a chocolate pipe, but it was read with a relaxed sense of humor — as if it was all part of the wonder — and without irony or sarcasm. This was a light, witty cautionary tale.

Years later, one of my friends from college had a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-themed wedding. The groom was Willy Wonka and the best men were Oompa Loompas and the event was bathed in hallucinogenic greens and reds. Throughout their courtship, the couple had shared an obsession with the 1971 film starring Gene Wilder and directed by Mel Stuart. During the ceremony, I couldn't help but feel disconnected from their passion for this version of the Charlie story. I never enjoyed the freewheeling saccharine look of the 1970s film, and I never found its corniness all that charming or entertaining. I'm not sure about my friends, but it does seem that many love this earlier film for its value as kitsch — so bad it's good, so wrong it's funny.

Or maybe this was the Wonka they had seen — wide-eyed, oddball, druggy — when they were kids? I think many devotees of this film see Wilder's Willy Wonka as a kindred type of outsider character, someone like them who would shop at vintage stores and listen to quirky music and be surrounded by other strange characters (Oompa Loompas) who all inhabit a similar world outside the mainstream. Stuart's style plays into this — it recalls an early-'70s counterculturalism with its colorful tie-dye aesthetic and score by Anthony Newley (whose music, according to many sources, was a major influence on alternative-chic David Bowie).

But this was far from what I imagined when I first heard the story, and so, I remember considering at the time that Wonka may be one of those characters in literature that just will never satisfy everyone when brought to the big screen. Perhaps, I thought, he is best left to the imagination, where Roald Dahl intended him to live, a place where he can always be whatever we want him to be — "uninterpreted."

But still, what is it about Willy Wonka that appeals to so many people, and yet everyone sees him differently? Amazingly, this question has come up again with the release of this summer's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory — a completely new take on Willy Wonka, and dramatically different from the more benevolent and wondrous character coming through my record player or the 1971 post-hippie incarnation.

In this new version, Wonka is presented as a social misfit — loveless and mean-spirited — who needs therapy. Via flashbacks (newly invented) the movie achieves a sort of 21st-century patina: we look to childhood, in a self-help, therapeutic kind of way, to understand how Wonka turned into such a messed-up individual. We see him on the therapist's couch, trying to talk to his inner child and understand the root of his loneliness. His childish demeanor is revealed as a desperate attempt to recapture lost youth, the fun that was denied him by a wicked dentist father. What's left is a man who works incessantly and builds an empire, all in service of filling the void left by a loveless parent. You practically expect Dr. Phil to walk on set any moment, shake him, and command him to get over it.

Furthermore, Depp plays Wonka with a much-discussed Michael Jackson creepiness that implies Willy's life of fame and wealth has created a monster. When we first meet him, he is a child prodigy who's built a massive empire. But as the story continues, he becomes neurotic and secluded — you might say he's the Citizen Kane of the candy industry. His only chance for outside contact is to use his fame to entice visitors to his secluded children's playland/Xanadu. This notion of luring children (whether it be because of Jackson, or the constant threat of internet predators) is particularly potent these days, and Depp channels this fear to give Wonka both a distasteful and familiar aura. I suppose there might be some social commentary to be found here — about family and wealth and values — but it doesn't really relate to the original intention of the novel. Dahl's distaste for gluttony and stupidity remain in the guises of the evil children, but this transformation of Willy Wonka is a little incomprehensible. I'm still not exactly sure what the point was.

The most disappointing thing for me, I will admit, was that when I heard about this project, I imagined that Johnny Depp would bring forward the Willy Wonka I had imagined as a kid. But I'm beginning to wonder whether that character — wise, charismatic, modest, clever, discerning, old-fashioned — really exists. Maybe, with all these different visions floating around, there will never be a definitive Willy Wonka — perhaps he's just too weird or idiosyncratic or complicated to be portrayed in a way that will satisfy everyone. For now, I'll just listen to my record again, and tell myself that those other guys aren't the Willy Wonka I know.

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