Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio (2022)

Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio feels like a handmade miracle: a stop-motion fairy tale where you can almost sense the fingerprints in the wood grain, and every shadowed corner is alive with imagination. Set against Mussolini’s Italy, it turns a familiar story into something braver and more tender, balancing macabre wonder with genuine warmth as it asks what it means to be a “good” child in a world that isn’t. The film’s designs are richly strange, its emotions earned rather than syrupy, and its adventure beats carry a real undercurrent of grief, love, and defiance. It’s darker and more intense than many family animations—there’s war, peril, and some unsettling imagery—but if you’re open to a Pinocchio that trades cute for cathartic, this one lingers like a story you grew up into.

Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio is aiming for a bold reinvention: a stop-motion fairy tale set against fascist Italy, using the familiar story to talk about grief, obedience, and what it costs to be “good.” Visually it’s often stunning and tactile, with eerie character design and a surprisingly heavy mood for a PG animated film, but the tone can feel jumpy—one minute heartfelt, the next oddly jokey or chaotic—and the emotional beats don’t always land as hard as the movie clearly wants them to. The political angle is there, yet it can come off more like set dressing than a fully coherent metaphor, which may leave you admiring the craft more than feeling the message. If you want a warm, magical, kid-friendly Pinocchio with consistent wonder, this probably isn’t it; if you’re up for a darker, art-first take with ambition (and some rough edges), it’s worth your time.