Del Toro and his co-writers — Patrick McHale for the screenplay and Matthew Robbins for the story — retain the setting of Collodi’s land, Italy, but the time frame has been bumped up into the 20th century, during the reign of Benito Mussolini and the fascists (in this way, GDT’s Pinocchio can be seen as a spiritual successor to the director’s condemnations of Franco’s Spain, The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth ).
In this way, Pinocchio is of a piece with works like Pan’s Labyrinth (Swinton’s wood sprite reminds one of Doug Jones’ faun) and The Devil’s Backbone (one shot of a bomb dropping from the POV of the bomber is repeated in both films) — morality tales presented through the otherworldly sheen of the supernatural.
It’s a very blatant metaphor, but one where Pinocchio finds true inspiration, interpreting familiar story beats in a manner that makes it feel like the final part of a trilogy that began with The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth , two other tales about children contending with the evils of fascism.
It’s more The Devil’s Backbone than Disney, Pinocchio by way of Pan’s Labyrinth .
The director behind The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth only plays with fairy tales when he can put such a gothic and grave stamp on them.
As you might expect from the man behind “Pan’s Labyrinth” and “The Devil’s Backbone,” there’s a dark, violent sense of consequence to this one, a healthy sense of grotesquerie, that makes its happy ending — yes, that’s still on the cards, but not exactly as you’d expect — feel hard-earned.