Although there’s much to admire in this handsomely mounted, stop-motion version of Carlo Collodi’s oft-filmed 1883 children’s novel, I’m reluctant to recommend it … in great part, because the intended target audience is a mystery.
 |
| Having broken a promise to attend school, Pinocchio is delighted by the acclaim he receives as the new star of Count Volpe's marionette show. |
Unsuspecting parents who gather the kiddies for what they assume will be a family-friendly holiday flick, are apt to be horrified.
Even del Toro hedges this particular bet. “It’s not necessarily made for children,” he admitted, in a recent Los Angeles Times interview, “but children can watch it.”
Seriously?
I think not.
(Del Toro is fond of placing his dark fantasies against the backdrop of real-world horrors; both The Devil’s Backboneand Pan’s Labyrinth are set during the Spanish Civil War.)
Granted, the surrealistic writer/director has a legion of fans, and lovers of this painstaking animation style certainly will embrace this outré fantasy; perhaps, combined, they’ll be sufficient. And, in fairness, co-director Mark Gustafson’s stop-motion work is stunning; whatever else can be said about this film, it exhibits a true sense of wonder.
Pinocchio’s appearance here — rough-hewn, spindly, unfinished (missing one ear), a true marionette — is inspired by artist Gris Grimly’s illustrated 2002 edition of Collodi’s book.
And, backed by fine voice talent, del Toro and Gustafson elicit an impressive range of emotions from these characters.
But my goodness, this film is bleak. And macabre. And sad.
A lengthy prologue introduces wood-carver Geppetto (voiced by David Bradley) and his young son, Carlo (Alfie Tempest). The old man dotes on the boy, who — a model child — is equally devoted to his father: trustworthy, obedient, eager to learn. Alas, his life is cut short by a wartime tragedy.
Geppetto is heartbroken, overwhelmed by grief; his work suffers, leaving unfinished a large wooden effigy of Jesus in the local church, much to the chagrin of the village priest (Burn Gorman). Time passes; finally, in a fit of drunken rage one night, Geppetto makes a “replacement son” and then falls asleep.
A large, feather-winged, luminous blue wood sprite (Tilda Swinton) appears; taking pity on Geppetto, she grants life to the hastily carved little puppet. She then charges his “development” to the erudite and touchingly noble Sebastian J. Cricket (Ewan McGregor, who also narrates this tale).
Geppetto is surprised and overjoyed, upon waking the next morning. Pinocchio (Gregory Mann), in turn, is irrepressible and eager to please. Alas, he also has the attention span of a gnat, and is easily distracted and delighted by … well … pretty much everything.
Pinocchio also is endearingly naïve. When Geppetto gifts him with Carlo’s favorite schoolbook, the little puppet gushes, “Oh, I love it!” … followed quickly by “What is it?” (He’ll repeat variations on those two pronouncements many times, as this story continues.)
This first act hews to our expectations of this oft-told tale. Geppetto sends Pinocchio to school, but — en route — the puppet is seduced away by traveling carnival conductor Count Volpe (Christoph Waltz), who promises fame, fortune and a starring role in his puppet show. Waltz’s performance is sublime; Volpe (Italian for fox) fancies himself a well-traveled sophisticate, fond of extravagant linguistic flourishes … but he’s clearly a total bastard.
Volpe is accompanied by his pet monkey, Spazzatura (Cate Blanchett, believe it or not), who handles the show’s stringed marionettes, and can be remarkably expressive and communicative, without actually speaking.
Geppetto is appalled, upon discovering Pinocchio’s disobedience. “Why can’t you be more like Carlo?” he wails: a sentiment he’ll repeat, with increased frustration.
Pinocchio’s truancy is noted by the town’s Podestà (Fascist official), who — dismayed by the puppet’s mischievous, free-spirited behavior — coldly observes that “The boy is a dissident.” Unlike most of the other key characters, the Podestà is less exaggerated, more real world, and therefore more ominous; Ron Perlman makes him quite chilling.
(The conceit of setting this tale in Fascist Italy becomes clear, at this point: A puppet has been dropped into a country laden with puppets who march blindly, lockstep, to the strings being pulled by Mussolini and his soldier thugs.)
(And, let it be said, del Toro and co-scripter Mark Gustafson parody Mussolini quite savagely, when Il Duce makes a wonderfully unflattering appearance.)
At this point, the story veers savagely into uncharted territory. Pinocchio dies (!), and is whisked to a blue-hued underworld where arriving coffins are stacked by dark, violet-skinned skeletal rabbits that play cards in between assignments (an obvious riff on Cassius Marcellus Coolidge’s “Dogs Playing Poker” paintings).
But Pinocchio isn’t really “dead,” because he isn’t really “alive”: a distinction explained by the majestic, luminous blue entity of Death (also Swinton), the grimly “realistic” sister of the compassionate wood sprite. Pinocchio has much to learn from this imposing figure, and he’ll get the chance … because, each time he’s “killed” (and yes, we’re talking multiple), he’s forced to spend more time with Death, before being sent back to our Earthly realm.
As the story moves into its second act, Pinocchio winds up not in Pleasure Island — or Toyland, as in Collodi’s novel — but at the Elite Military Project for Special Patriotic Youth: a training camp that finds the puppet alongside the Podestà’s son, Candlewick (Finn Wolfhard).
Geppetto, meanwhile, runs afoul not of a giant whale, but an equally massive dogfish; this sets up the ocean-bound third act, where these characters share the sea with scores of floating naval mines.
In a bit of gallows humor, a seagull lands on one of these wicked spheres, and — with del Toro and Gustafson displaying comic timing worthy of a Chuck Jones Roadrunner cartoon — depresses the plunger, blowing itself into feathered smithereens. (I confess: I laughed out loud. I’m that way.)
This sort of cartoon slapstick — perhaps giving children a bit of what they expect of an animated film — carries over into the brutal treatment of Sebastian, who repeatedly gets squashed, crushed and stomped upon. (“Oh, the pain,” the poor cricket intones each time, in McGregor’s most forlorn cadence.)
Alexandre Desplat’s lush orchestral score frequently is interrupted by brief songs, several of which feel inserted just to fill time. The poignant tunes — notably “My Son” and “Better Tomorrows” — are sweet and soulful, but most of the others are superfluous.
The frequently bizarre landscapes into which Pinocchio is dropped notwithstanding, del Toro and McHale’s story does contain a crucial moral: the damage that is done, when fathers set up expectations for their sons, rather than loving them for who they are. (Oddly enough, that’s also a key element in two other recent films: Strange World and Avatar: The Way of Water.)
This story contains three father/son relationships: Geppetto and Pinocchio, the Podestà and Candlewick, Volpe and Spazzatura. And, in all three cases, the “sons” find reason to rebel.
Making it to the conclusion of this morose and gruesome saga can be considered an accomplishment: Take a deep breath of relief, we made it! But no, it’s not over; an unexpected, heartbreaking epilogue will leave many in wide-eyed, tear-stained shock.
Is this destination worth the journey? I guess that’s up to individual taste, but I can’t think of a single person I’d encourage to see this film.
Even though it’s clearly the best possible version of what it set out to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment