The Pan-Like Pinnacle of Del Toro’s PINOCCHIO (Patreon)

Why do we tell stories?

I know I tend to start a lot of discussions by asking big, broad questions, but sometimes it feels pertinent to said discussion. Like, yes, I KNOW the reason we tell stories is a multi-faceted instinct. It’s partly for pure entertainment, as if an essential cure for boredom (which feels kind of important all the same). And I know part of it goes back to the history of language and needing stories for literal instructional teaching. To “storify" is to help something make more sense, even if it is internal. Which helps get to that more important question of “why” in terms of modern artistic pursuit. Because films don’t just provide an intellectual exercise, they characterize a much deeper emotional experience within ourselves. Which is why I often go to legendary filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky for my favorite definition. He said: “The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.” That may sound like a hell of an aim, but if you’re gonna spend a lot of money on ding dang film, you might as well try to do just that.

But the question of “why” feels double pertinent because I honestly spent a good part of this year trying to figure out why the heck so many artists have spent the last century and a half-ish trying to retell the story of Pinocchio. Is it some connection to Carlo Collodi’s 1883 children’s novel? Or the countless adaptations that came in its wake? Is it an Italian cultural tradition, which is why Roberto Benigni has attempted making it twice? Or is it the generation of filmmakers that grew up on Disney’s 1940 film, which might be their darkest, weirdest effort in the canon? Is it something whose themes of creating life / not feeling real strikes a deeper theme within them, particularly as creators themselves? Is this why we often see its clear influence on works like Astro Boy or Spielberg’s A.I. Artificial Intelligence? I ask all these things because that deeper question of “why” lingered so much with me after attempting to watch Robert Zemeckis’ garish live-action Disney’s Pinocchio remake at the end of last year (which honestly, felt dizzying and I had to give up on). What brought this empty decision on? And probably unfairly, this was part of that feeling of dread that couldn’t help but curl inside of me when I wondered about the “why” behind Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinocchio. To be clear, I’ve loved so much of Del Toro’s work. But I had also seen so many artists who loved the original material try before, too. And thus, those existential questions of “why” hit twice as hard as they do with other original films. Why do we keep retelling this story? Why does this newest version need to exist? What will it truly give us in turn?

Fortunately, the film itself provides some powerful answers and then some.

Much of the statement of intent for Del Toro’s Pinocchio comes right from the onset. Where so many versions of the story seem to paint Geppetto as some kind of archetypal lonely soul, instead, the film goes straight for your guts by illuminating on a wounded pain that has come before. Here, we actually get to see Geppetto living with his first son Carlo (named for the author). We get to know and love their relationship as the film takes great care to not just “spend time,” but dramatize the humane respect the two have for one another. Which, of course, is all before the boy dies as a needless casualty of war (as all wars do). From this festering wound, Geppetto’s creation of Pinocchio is not a delicate affair, nor a hopeful wish upon a star. But a brash, drunken act of grief. It’s a heartbreaking and scary sequence, but one which only serves to bring the film closer to the central, rawer emotion at play.

But this and so many of these scenes make me want to stop and take highlight the work David Bradley, who is perhaps best known to the younger generation as Argus Filch, but whose incredible career has spanned the glory of The Royal Shakespeare Company and Joe Orton’s Prick Up Your Ears, to the fun genre fare of Doctor Who, Game of Thrones and the films of Edgar Wright. But while so many films take advantage of his scowl and prickly exterior, here we get to see so much of his incredible range, from his gentle paternal love, to his desperation, to his soulful pangs of regret. All of which is indicative of the more stark direction of where Del Toro and all his wonderful collaborators are going. From the achingly gorgeous stop-motion co-direction of Mark Gustafson, to the clever co-writing of Patrick McHale (Over The Garden Wall), to the somber, yet floral echoes of Alexandre Desplat’s score. All parties are firing on all cylinders, all bearing down into the deeper essence of the text they are dealing with.

Starting with the way that the film upholds the literary tradition of Pinocchio not just being a gullible idiot, but a little shit. I say this lovingly. For one, so much of old children’s literature was about scaring the crap out of kids in order to get them to behave and much of the original Collodi tale is no different. It’s all about putting the wooden boy’s lazy, childish inclinations on blast. But some adaptations, and especially this film, understand that Pinocchio’s little-shit-ness is not born from malice, but more the curious innocence of a child’s instincts. He wants to play all day as so many kids do and you sense the film’s empathy with it. It’s something perhaps best represented by the monster joke where Sebastian J. Cricket tries to explain basic math and  Pinocchio can only explain, “I got confused. I don’t like school anymore!” Before promptly running off to the circus. And luckily for the story, Pinocchio brings this plucky comic naivety to every interaction, including his own fleecing, drafting, and even death. That’s correct. But the truth is you’re going to need the upbeat comic stylings of him shouting things like “It’s boring in there I hate being dead!” because the film itself is going to dive head-long into despair and the darker heart of the world around them.

You know, like fascism.

Yes, this is about Nazis (please let’s not split fascism hairs about Mussolini, who was literally in league). But of course the filmmaker who made Pan’s Labyrinth is going to have no fear heading his children’s film right into the horrors of fascism. Why? Because it's something real kids have to deal with, too. And thus it’s more and more critical to portray as we live in the age of its horrific return. An age where educational administrators are desperately trying to erase the knowledge of its history, one which must seek never to repeat. Kids just like Candlewick were brought up to value might and destruction and indoctrinated as little soldiers. Which is why the movie largely reframes the “boyish” pleasure island sequence as a fascism training camp. But it is here where once again Pinocchio’s innocence can sparkle in comparison: “is anyone here afraid of the enemy?” / *raises hand* “yeah huh!” And soon he undoes it before breaking / not playing the “game” that’s been set out for them. All before leading to the space of war-like self-combustion as Candlewick can free himself from the horrific cycles of his father, who remains trapped in the literal and proverbial netting.

It’s remarkable, but I also worry that it’s also precisely the kind of sequence that college audiences will see as “too simple” or “on the nose,” which implies that all truth or morality has some maddening gray area that not only has to be acknowledged, but worshiped before all else. Which is, quite frankly, absurd. Because fascism itself is absurd. There is no nuance in its prominence, nor appeal. Plus, there are clear, vivid, stark injustices propagated by it. And often, the constant pleas for “nuance” are often just used to obfuscate the reality of the stark injustice in question. Which is why the “simple” kindergarten-like lessons are so instrumental to breaking the cycle of fascistic thought. But at the same time, the film is fully acknowledging that it is the heartbreaking drama of the STORY itself that often leads to those emotional conclusions. For “getting it” is often only achieved through pain, loss, and the drawing of boundaries. For which there is no story more human or complex.

At the same time, the film's daring nature continues by constantly dangling the bigger, more precocious question of religion in front of us (often rather directly). It’s no accident that Carlo is killed in a church, a casualty of them trying to finish the carving of Jesus on the cross while hitting the random happenstance of a bomber lightening its load. Which feels less like some atheistic skewering of belief itself and more like the age-old angst of asking why god would allow such tragedy to happen in the first place. This is the existential crux of Geppetto’s grief, but it’s also the larger tragic view of the movie itself. One even felt in the running gag of Sebastian J. Cricket constantly getting stomped on and giving lines about how “life is such hideous pain” and “one nightmare after another.” Which means the film is more of an existential wrestling than a specifically-religious one, even if they are part of the same set of questions. Heck, Pinocchio even draws the parallel to his own christ-like nature of his miracle birth, but noting the sharp difference between them. While gesturing at the cross he asks, “Why do they like him and not me?” It’s a dagger slice of an observation. One that tells us that the things worship rarely has to do with that which is miraculous, but more that behavior we wish to exult in turn. And where many a Catholic flock to the pious nature of the sacrificial image of Jesus, it is Pinocchio’s ram-shod curiosity that Del Toro seems to have far more affection for. And ultimately, part of the thing that is transformational.

Though made of wood, Pinocchio is born as a boy in purest form. He is born of pure instincts, following his druthers and curiosity, while unaware of the ways of the world. Which means that in another way, he’s a simpleton who becomes a reflecting prism for everyone he meets (and reminds me a lot of one of my favorite films: Being There in that way). Pinocchio is either celebrated or taken advantage of in equal measure, often serving as a projection for others. Which not only allows the arcs to play out in reflexive relationships, but allows the film to point the same power of moral observation back at adulthood. Because the main moral thrust of the classic story of Pinocchio is not just about doing as one’s told and getting to work, but with the nose growing it is about lessons of lying, which this film insightfully characterizes as something obvious to all but the teller. This is not just a moral failing that personally took me way longer to realize than it should have, but something the film points back at the adult world with grander nuance. Not just with the obvious cases of string-pulling Volpe or the fascistic rhetoric of Podesta, but even his paternal relationship with Geppetto, too.

Because what is at the heart of their story of what happens when a parent - that is a loved one above all else - is mean to us. And mean in a way that undoes our existential value. Cricket does his best to explain the cruelty of Geppetto’s words to Pinocchio, that sometimes loved ones say “things they think they mean at the time, but never really meant at all.” It’s obviously a giant thing to unpack. We live in a world where there are mean parents absolutely worth cutting out. But this also goes beyond the simple fantasy of saving a parent and hearing what we want. The film dives into Geppetto’s earnest apology so squarely that it is a testament to the depths of what it’s really reaching for in the arc of their relationship. One which is about what it means to learn, grow, love, and be accepted by each other in turn. It’s even followed by one of those deft screenwriting moves where Pinocchio gets them out of the literal and proverbial limbo of the whale with an inverted-yet-cathartic use of nose-growing, one where he’s actually telling us every single lesson he’s learned from his journey.

The density of all this is not just an intellectual exercise, nor is it a pointless excuse to mire us in darkness. To go back to the start, Tarkovsky said “the allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.” Which is why a film that is so ardently about the miracle and pains of existence is going to embrace the somber ends of death. Which is the thing that everyone, especially kids, need to understand with emotions that go far beyond ignorance and dread. There’s a vivid acceptance here. Yes, Geppetto dies and perhaps we were prepared for that. But our Cricket narrator dies, too… and “being kept right in his heart” is pretty sure where I finally went from tears along the movie's way to full on ugly crying (to top it off there’s even a grave for the fucking monkey). But it tells us even Pinocchio one day will die, too, echoing the direct, vivid, and all too true words of “and then we’re gone” as a pine-cone, the lad’s namesake, falls to the ground. Itself a seeming death, but actually the start of a new tree… After the waves of all of this, I sat there with drying tears for a long time. I understand that I probably think about “welcoming death” more than the average person, I don’t know. I just know that I’m still thinking about the movie ten days later. And it’s probably because there’s no glad-handing. Nothing that lets us viewers off the hook. No pleasant insistence that it will be okay. It’s sad, stark, and yet, an act of empathetic commiseration… which is probably what preparation really feels like.

So why remake Pinocchio?

We remake an assured classic of cinema that’s been done time and time again?

It turns out the answer was the same deeper reason we tell stories on the whole. It’s not that everyone needs this particular story, it’s that everyone needs what this story is about. And here, Del Toro, Gustafson, and their collaborators have created something that dives into the source material and unpacks its more essential nature. That finds its most resonant themes. That unveils both its timeliness and timelessness. That ploughs and harrows the soul. And in doing so, they took a story that I’ve seen versions of time and time again and suddenly struck that deepest emotional core within my very being… It feels like the version that always needed to exist. The first version that really means something to me. To the point that when someone now says the word “Pinocchio” the sudden image that’s conjured into my mind is that crooked, delicate wooden face, gently clutched in his father’s hands. Which means that after all that, it has somehow, someway, become the version I will think of first.

I can think of no higher compliment.

<3HULK