Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio

Re-Tooling Pinocchio

or

"All Good Things Require Patience"

Good Lord, we're certainly in a nostalgia craze right now, but then self-isolation will do that to you. Spielberg did Fabelmans, Mendes does Empire of Light, and now del Toro makes a film that was inspired by an early childhood movie memory of his youth, his own version of Pinocchio. I can't fault him; I loved that movie as a child—and was obsessed with it, too. But, that was Disney's Pinocchio made in 1940. It's of a different time and a different sensibility.

 

Guillermo Del Toro's Pinocchio is quite another creature entirely. For one thing, it's set in the fascist Italy of the 1930's. And the puppet is a puppet, never losing his bark (as it were) and without the embedded wish of being a real boy. He's real enough and high on, if not life, anthropomorphism. But, he's a block of wood, cut from a tree, without the benefit of paint or clothes as per the Disney version (and the recent Robert Zemeckis adaptation on Disney+). 

And this version isn't 2D animation or CGI as with those. This is stop-motion animation, that pain-staking movie-making done (as with most animation) frame by frame. I've always had a soft spot for this type of work, be it from its earliest days of King Kong, through the mesmerizing work of Ray Harryhausen to the improvements of "go-motion" developed by the wizards like Phil Tippett for the Star Wars films. To think of these guys, with their little play-sets, moving their figures inch by perceptible inch, bearing in mind the incremental differences in perceptible motion and speed!) to create the illusion of life on film reveals not only the imagination but the science and mechanics of making moving pictures. We won't even talking about the commitment of walking to a studio knowing you'll probably only get a minute of film done (if you're lucky) every day.

So, hats off to Mark Gustafson, who co-directed this—while del Toro was off directing live features, promoting them, winning Oscars, getting married and supervising his vision of what "his" Pinocchio story should be. Gustafson's work is incredible...and convincing. You get lost in this world and its creatures, all with their individual quirks and personalities (they move differently—by design, Gustafson's design). Those are determined by del Toro, they are brought to life by Gustafson's steadfast and steady work.

You know the story. Simplified, the story goes like this; Gepetto is a wood-carver/toy-maker who makes a humanoid marionette with the wish that it might be a real boy. Supernatural powers animate the puppet and, after the usual chaos that an energized blunt instrument can inflict, Gepetto insists that the thing go to school to be socialized, forgetting that society sees Pinocchio as a puppet walking around without strings and thus, something exploitable. Pinocchio gets gathered like kindling and tied up in a traveling show. Much searching occurs until getting swallowed by a whale, at which point, Pinoke proves his worth saving everybody and is rewarded.

But, it's the details. Disney's version leaned on the "wants to be a 'real' boy" wish, starlet-pretty fairies, anthropomorphized animals, and an emphasis on good behavior (while, curiously, demonstrating smoking, drinking, gambling, and vandalism) tent-poled with a lot of classic songs that perpetually show up in modern culture as well as hawking trips to Disneyland. The lesson to it all is "Always Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide," which implies that the conscience leads to good behavior that is accepted by society, the church, and the family. And that "being a real boy" is the sine qua non of life.

 

As they say at "CinemaSins": "That's speciest!"

Del Toro tells a different story, while keeping the nuts and bolts holding the thing together. It's set in the 1930's during fascist Italy (as we've said), and Gepetto (David Bradley) makes his figure after his beloved son, Carlo, is killed in a bombing. Despairing (and drinking) he builds it from the tree that has grown out of his son's grave. Wood spirits (in the form of a slightly angelic figure—voiced by Tilda Swinton) show up and grant life to the figure and appoint resident cricket Sebastian J. Cricket (Ewan McGregor playing Obi-Wan for Disney a-gain!) as his guide and tutor.

The sight of Pinocchio (Gregory Mann) gallivanting cluelessly and curiously around his work-shop filled with sharp objects understandably freaks out the hung-over Gepetto. And his instincts are to curb his enthusiasms or, failing that, lock him in the closet to minimize the damage he causes. It's easiest to do the latter, ironically when he's going to church) But, Pinocchio cannot be contained and he follows his "Papa" to the humble chapel adorned with a crucifix built by Gepetto.

But, the parishioners are aghast! What unholy thing has desecrated this House of God? It's an abomination and (not only that, says the town's fascist leader, Podesta-voiced by "del Toro regular" Ron Perlman) he's a "dissident. An independent thinker, I'd say." All because Pinocchio looks at the wooden Christ on the cross (also built by his "Papa") and wonder "How come they like him and not me?" Poor Pinocchio. He's a beginning student asking post-grad questions.

Time to send him to school, but he's easily distracted by an offer from the unscrupulous Count Volpe (Christoph Waltz) to join his circus and become a performer in his traveling puppet act. Soon, Pinocchio is quite the attraction, attracting the attention of a desperate Gepetto and the fascist Podesta—who wants to gain favor with Il Duce, Benito Mussolino (Tom Kenny), who fancies puppets as much as he fancies being the ultimate puppeteer. Dictators always have that fantasy, whether they rule a puppet government or not.

This is all delightful, even if its satire is heavy-handed (fascists deserve no less) at times, and its humor is periodically ghastly (it is del Toro, after all), but it caroms along at a brisk pace, occasionally interrupted by songs (composed by the always inventive Alexandre Desplat, with lyrics by del Toro and Roeban Katz) that are sometimes interrupted themselves by some boisterous activity that ends them in mid-note.

And it adheres to the "Always Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide" maxim in a way that works in a complicated way where Society may not always be in the right. I like that. Like the movie itself, its heart is is exactly the right place where it should be, even if there is no heart in evidence.

 

This is a Pinocchio I can admire, no strings attached.

Pacific Rim

Have a review of Kong: Skull Island coming up...which was originally suggested to be directed by Guillermo del Toro. This was written at this film's release.

"Jaeger-Meisters of the Universe"
or
Gigantor versus Godzilla

Oh, man. Guillermo del Toro's Pacific Rim may be the smartest dumb movie ever made, a direct descendant of the Japanese monster movies that became increasingly inane and family-friendly...but were not without their charms...and cultish admirers. Del Toro is obviously one of the latter, expanding from the menagerie of Big Creature Movies of the 1950's and '60's to posit "if we're getting so many of these things in our midst," what would the World do to combat them?

Build really big, hurkin' robots to beat 'em up, of course!  

In a short explanation at the beginning, pilot Raleigh Beckett (Charlie Hunnam) says, "Whenever I felt lonely I looked at the stars. I was looking in the wrong direction." It turns out that we're not alone; there's a rift in the Marianas Trench in the Pacific Ocean that serves as an inter-dimensional portal for creatures that attack coastal cities, starting in 2013. The devastation wreaked by the increasing monster attacks compels the Pacific Rim nations—U.S., Russia, China, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Indonesia—to form their own anti-giant lizard NATO against the "Kaiju," as they're dubbed, by using skyscraper-tall "Jaegers," huge piloted robot warriors to take on the huge lumbering monsters.

For awhile, the system works, the pilots becoming heroes, but the Kaiju get bigger and more resistant to Jaeger attacks and more sophisticated in their assaults, and Jaeger up-keep gets expensive. World leaders start leaning towards defensive measures—thick walls to keep the invaders out—which, given the increasing abilities of the Kaiju, will eventually be a losing proposition.

Parallels to current issues abound, and the film is a bit more subtle tackling other questions than one might expect in a robo-critter slug-a-thon: what are the Kaiju? Where do they come from? How does one fight an increasingly sophisticated enemy with the weapons you have?

Those are answered in the peripheries of the smack-downs that are the Jaeger-Kaiju battles, which have a giddy "Alley Oop!" quality to them. There's an inherent goofy quality to seeing these lumbering mecha's—each with their own distinctive movement and swagger—planting hay-makers on assorted carapaces, using WWF moves on the monsters when it comes to close combat. 

There's also something innately funny that these robots are so huge, as if they were walking Chrysler Buildings seeking revenge for past attacks. It takes awhile for the Kaiju to figure out that they should go for the head (where the pilots are), but the Jaeger are so absurdly top-heavy one wonders why they don't just go for the knees in the first place. Or double-team them by one sneaking up behind one (they have enormous blind-spots, being humanoid-inspired), and kneeling down, so that a front-attacking Kaiju can just push them over backwards—the fighting is that level of sophistication. But overlook that, and the basic concept of two people working in tandem for the movements—explained away by a hokum concept called "The Drift" that allows minds to merge—so that the minuscule puppet-masters can operate the stories tall rod-puppets.

That's in the foreground, but the basic concepts are deep and detailed, with the various Rim stations and individual fighter designs being incredibly complex. There's also an optimistic "we're all in this together" spirit, despite all the expected competition and squabbling between the teams for most effective skills.

It's weird, inherently silly, but rather thrilling in conceptualization and realization. And even though the Kaiju are not distinctive enough to be able to quickly ascertain who's who and what's what on first viewing, del Toro manages to keep all things clear—a bit like pulling off his own Jaeger juggling act.  

It's Kaiju-clobberin' time

Now, one would think that after a Summer of mounting indiscriminate screen carnage that has become increasingly boring to watch and numbing to the senses, that any more apocalypse would continue the trend of providing less bang for your buck. But del Toro has managed to create a movie that has some impact, includes some awe-inspiring moments, and considerable humor to balance the package out, and one has to applaud the "togetherness" factor of individuals and nations forming a Corps of the Clobbering to take on the global threat (did I mention this movie is a complete fantasy?), in a way that doesn't feel militaristic, but is inclusive in spirit. 

Hell, yeah, it's goofy, but it is also entertaining and points to how a particular vision can rise above pedestrian material to make something so enjoyable.