I found myself glancing down at my hands, watched them unclench while Lampwick's melted into hooves, the braying jackass lit like a death-row nightmare, glare and shadow and trembling retreat. Pinocchio has a conscience, all right, and Jiminy! it's unyielding. Time and again, the little wooden-head feels the "reiterated strokes" of retribution, the Blue Fairy—cute as Carole Lombard and ever-so-sweet—reminding him what happens to bad little boys. Disney has stirred up the cartoon like Monstro churning the sea, while the Cricket wise-cracks and Pinnoke plugs along, the stone tied to his tail, both ballast and burden.
I think it frightened my children; but it has a dark-hued beauty, from the first moments in the clock-and-toy shop to the devastated Pleasure Island, that I haven't seen since Murnau's Faust. And I know the songs are in there, sweet and lively, and the curious fish scatter like neon confetti, and all ends well—but along the way night falls, and all instead seems lost, even with a wishing-star. I'm not sure this one is for the kiddies.
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