Anyone who hasn’t heard of Pinocchio is likely sporting a 12-foot-long nose. Even those unfamiliar with Disney’s iconic film have heard a rendition of the Academy Award-winning song, “When You Wish Upon a Star.” From Spielberg‘s less obvious take via A.I. Artificial Intelligence to Zemeckis‘s recent version on Disney+ — maybe pass on the lifeless latter — the heartfelt tale of the puppet transformed into a real boy is a cornerstone of cinema and storytelling.
Guillermo del Toro doesn’t direct bad films and, given his long-gestating enthusiasm for the story, his take on Pinocchio would at the very least be interesting. In fact, this and Frankenstein (fingers crossed it still happens) are two works del Toro is primed to adapt.
Can his Pinocchio stand stringless in the shadow of Walt Disney’s version, arguably one of the most important pieces of animation ever? Miraculously, it does so, and then some.
Real Boy Reimagined
This Pinocchio hits differently than previous versions. For a fairytale so historically filled with life, surprisingly few renditions — including Carlo Collodi’s original — approach death with sincerity. And why would they? The harsh reality of mortality isn’t exactly a great icebreaker for kids. It’s a necessary talking point, but not an easy one.
Except for del Toro. The filmmaker is unmatched in helping us approach the macabre and uncomfortable. Pan’s Labyrinth was a swan song for childhood. The Shape of Water explored an unlikely and unaccepted love. Nightmare Alley unraveled the irreparable harm of lies. And Pinocchio captures the inevitability of death.
Geppetto (David Bradley) is the sole carpenter for a small Italian village. While restoring the local church’s giant crucifix, an unexpected bombing kills his son Carlo (Gregory Mann). He plants a tree in his memory, only to abruptly cut it down in a grief-driven rage.
The abrupt felling catches a recently moved-in Sebastian J. Cricket (Ewan McGregor) off guard. Quickly, the talkative bug’s new home is drunkenly whittled, carved and nailed into a really rough puppet. The tragedy is too much for the wandering Wood Sprite (Tilda Swinton) to ignore. After some negotiating with Cricket, the fairy gives the wooden boy (also Mann) life.
Spoilers: he ain’t pretty. Del Toro reminds us Pinocchio is born of hope and pain. While life is absolutely beautiful, it’s also grotesque. His protagonist perfectly embodies this concept with long, spider-like arms and a misshapen head. Crooked nails jut from his shoulder blades. He’s so initially terrifying, he spends a few of his first seconds as a monster locked in a cellar. The only thing missing is Pinocchio shrieking, “dead by dawn!”
Depression isn’t delicate. When we can’t move on, we tend to act recklessly. For Geppetto, this means going from a childless parent to an accidental necromancer. Del Toro is keen to unravel every implication that brings.
The del Toro Touch
The director’s worlds are no doubt magical. Yet until Pinocchio, they’ve been almost entirely live-action. It’s kind of baffling that this film marks his first directorial effort into animation. And there’s no better vehicle for del Toro than stop motion.
Some imitators believe a chunk of the artist’s power is strictly aesthetic. They’re not entirely wrong, but behind every Pale Man is an irreplicable attention to detail. Every figure is filled to its hinges with this sentiment.
Each of the non-human characters is one part terrifying and two parts awe-inspiring. The Wood Sprite and her sister Death are prime examples. The former is speckled with eyes akin to Hellboy II’s Angel of Death. Speaking of Death, in Pinocchio, she’s a manticore-sphinx hybrid accented by the soul-infused dew of the River Styx. Neither are on screen for very long, but every frame the sisters fill is captivating.
Del Toro’s sea monster (this film’s Monstro) also distances itself from its predecessors. Rather than a shark or murderous sperm whale, the director casts his net into the deep sea. Basically a massive anglerfish, Pinocchio’s behemoth is complete with a pussy exterior and sword-like teeth inspired by the denizens of the darkest depths.
One String Attached
Every version of Pinocchio hints at the consequences of life. But none, save A.I., truly drive it home. In del Toro’s take, Pinocchio dies. A lot. He always comes back, but each resurrection takes a little bit longer until it defeats the point of coming back at all.
Death and its inescapable nature bookends Pinocchio. Del Toro doesn’t beat us over the head with it, and he doesn’t need to — it speaks for itself. Life is frail as it is momentary. Even a rowdy, inhuman doll can’t duck it.
In other words, Pinocchio pays close attention to the “after” of “happily ever after.” The film argues there’s no such thing as eternal happiness. Instead, it’s maintained for as long as it can. Friends and foes arise, change and ultimately die.
Pinocchio is a reminder we move on until we stop moving altogether, a quintessential element to all of del Toro’s films. The journey and the destination are worth celebrating.
