Pinocchio (2019)

Matteo Garrone’s Pinocchio feels less like a glossy fairy tale and more like a handmade storybook that somehow learned to breathe—tactile, strange, and enchantingly alive in every frame. The makeup and costumes don’t just decorate the world; they give it weight and texture, so each wonder (and each warning) lands with the dream-logic of a childhood fable you half-remember and can’t quite shake. Roberto Benigni brings a weathered tenderness to Geppetto that anchors the spectacle in real longing, while the film’s fidelity to Collodi embraces the tale’s darker, more eccentric corners without turning cynical. It’s not the cuddliest family fantasy—there are a few unsettling images and a sharper edge than some versions—but if you want Pinocchio as a vivid, weirdly satisfying journey rather than a sanitized bedtime story, this one is a minor marvel.

Matteo Garrone’s Pinocchio (2019) is clearly aiming for a faithful, earthy fairy tale—less cuddly Disney, more old-world folklore with grime under its fingernails—and on that level the makeup, production design, and creature work are genuinely impressive. The problem is it often feels like a beautifully staged parade of incidents rather than a story that builds emotional momentum, so you may admire the craft without actually feeling much. The pacing can be stop-start and the tone swings between enchanting and oddly chilly, which makes Pinocchio’s eventual “lesson learned” land with less punch than it should. If you want warmth, wonder, and a big cathartic payoff, this might leave you cold; if you’re up for a darker, museum-quality take with some unsettling imagery, it’s a solid curiosity.