The Little Foxes (1941)

Today’s Cinema Adventure is William Wyler’s Hollywood adaptation of Lillian Hellman’s play about a scheming family of Southerners manipulating their way to financial domination of their small town, which was was made in 1941 and provided a vehicle for Bette Davis (already a double Oscar-winner) at the peak of her star power. She was reluctant to take the part – Talullah Bankhead had played it onstage, and Davis felt she had captured it perfectly – but she ultimately relented, and in Regina Giddens, the ambitious sister in a trio of ruthless siblings who is bent on beating her brothers at their own game, she found a role that seemed to perfectly match the intelligence, strength, and temperament of her persona. However, she plays the role with so much bile that she comes off as a selfish woman of no compassion, despite the strong subtext that suggests a character desperate to escape the stifling oppression of a life she has been locked into since childhood – a theme which extends to the story’s other female characters, Birdie (the faded southern belle married for her land and her social standing and now relegated to a life of irrelevance and misery by an abusive husband – played with heartbreaking perfection by Patricia Collinge) and Alexandra (Regina’s teen-aged daughter, slowly awakening to the ugly reality of her family’s predatory nature – played with believable idealistic zeal by a young and fresh Teresa Wright). Playwright Hellman famously disliked Bette’s performance, preferring Elizabeth Taylor’s more vulnerable approach in the much-later stage remount of the play to the outright villainy with which Davis infused the role; but Davis, in her defense, claimed to have been compelled into taking a different direction than Bankhead’s original, emphasizing Regina’s cold and steely resolve over a more empathetic interpretation. In any case, it seems clear that Davis, well-known to be a woman who held her own in a man’s world, was channeling her own steely determination into Regina – a character to whom she must have related, in that way – and it’s a treat to watch her work, whether or not her choices were in keeping with the integrity of the playwright’s intentions.

The rest of the cast – a staunch roster of supporting players, the best that an A-list studio “prestige” picture could hope to offer – are every bit up to the standard set by their leading lady (Charles Dingle, as Regina’s mendacious older brother, is particularly delicious), and director William Wyler, one of the great masters of the old studio system and a filmmaker capable of building a movie that could not only contain Davis but complement her over-the-top splendor (though on this project, they famously clashed over everything from her subtext to her makeup), ensures that the movie never comes off as a filmed play, but a confident piece of old-school cinema in its own right. He’s helped in that by the screenplay, which was penned (mostly, although there was additional dialogue contributed by Dorothy Parker, among others) by the playwright herself; Hellman seamlessly opened up the action to other locations to avoid a stage-bound feel, and managed to keep the film’s perfunctory romance (added at the studio’s insistence, no doubt) from detracting from the weight of the story by creating a new character in the form of a progressive young newsman (played by a handsome and lively Richard Carlson) who could not only provide a love interest for Wright but give voice to her own socialist sentiments.

In fact, it’s those political ideals that give “The Little Foxes” a weight and resonance today that make it hold up better than some of the other classics of its era. In this turn-of-the-century tale of greedy capitalists pursuing private gain by exploiting not only the community in which they live but also the people who are foolish enough to love them, it’s pretty obvious to see a direct thread running all the way from the era of slavery, through the carpetbagging of the post-Civil War South and the industrialist expansion of the late 19th Century into the dangerously fascist-leaning pre-WWII era which gave rise to both the play and the film – and by extension, into our own age of kleptocracy and corporate profiteering. Hellman was a fierce fighter against the commodification of humanity, and it’s no mere plot device that, in this piece, she made the Hubbard clan’s scheme dependent on the exploitation of workers – it’s central to everything she was trying to say. Because of this, even the dated, now-embarassing portrayal of the film’s many black characters (the descendents of slaves, still serving the children of their former masters) plays a subtle part in reinforcing the underlying radicalism of the theme; the cultural politics of their interactions with the white characters, presented without comment or irony, speak volumes, and while no doubt the studio (and most audiences) were oblivious to this undercurrent, it’s impossible to believe that Hellman and some of the other more socially aware members of the creative team were blind to it, or that it was not, in fact, an important piece of intentional messaging.

If, when watching “The Little Foxes,” one has any illusion that it is meant only as a “Dynasty”-style bitch-fest (an interpretation embraced and perhaps preferred by a generation of Bette-worshipers who want only to see their idol as an emblem of personal power claimed in the face of a hostile culture which denies it to those deemed “other”), the title alone should be a clue that there was much more on the mind of it’s creator. It’s a reference to a verse in the Bible, Solomon 2:15, which reads “Take us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes.” In other words, it’s a story about corruption, and how those who exploit the natural wealth of the world for their own benefit subvert and inhibit its growth. Seen this way, it’s hard to find any sympathy for Regina (especially the way Davis plays her), who is as complicit in the technically-legal-but-inherently-immoral machinations of her family as her brothers – no matter what her motivation or good intentions may be. In this light, she is fully deserving to be left at the end, as she is, utterly alone – with only the coldness of her wealth to comfort her against the prospect of a lifetime spent maneuvering to protect it from those as ruthless as she.

“The Little Foxes” was nominated for 9 Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Actress, Best Supporting Actress, Best Director, and Best Adapted Screenplay. It didn’t win any of them. Also, although it was a box office hit, thanks to the high percentage received by producer Samuel Goldwyn, its distrubutor (RKO Pictures) lost money on it. A few years later, Hellman wrote a “prequel” play, “Another Part of the Forest,” which chronicled the rise of the Hubbard clan and went on be made into another critically-acclaimed film in 1948, starring Fredric March and Florence Eldridge. Although the characters from “Little Foxes” all appeared as their younger selves, actor Dan Duryea (who played ne’er-do-well nephew Leo in the earlier film) was the only cast member who returned – this time portraying his previous character’s father, Oscar (played in “Foxes” by Carl Benton Reid).

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Casablanca (1942)

Today’s cinema adventure: Casablanca, the 1942 classic starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman as a pair of former lovers who are reunited amidst the turmoil and intrigue of the title city during the early years of World War II. Frequently classified as film noir, this iconic gem is really more of a romance, though it shares many features- the cynical tone, the shadowy lighting, the focus on corruption and betrayal- with the then-still-developing noir genre; but classification aside, the fact remains that Casablanca is one of the handful of films that can be indisputably called an iconic classic, an example of Hollywood’s golden era at its finest, and one of those cultural touchstones that never seems to lose relevance, despite the passage of years and the changing attitudes of society. The reasons why are intangible; examining its elements individually, there seems no reason why it should have more power than any other relatively well-made pot-boiler of its time, and its production history was famously messy, with continual changes and second-guessing by its writers and producers that should logically have resulted in a complete muddle. Instead it was, well, Casablanca. It’s an example of one of those fortuitous combinations of people and circumstance that can only be ascribed to fate.

Though it may not be possible to fully explain the mystique of Casablanca, it is certainly easy to understand its initial success within a historical context. It depicts a place where justice and decorum are merely a façade, creating the illusion of a level field in the deadly game of manipulation being played underneath; where sentiment and desperation are weaknesses to be exploited in the pursuit of shameless self-interest; and where law and diplomacy exist only to serve the powerful in the enforcement of their will. In this cutthroat arena, Rick- a worldly-wise American expatriate- is the champion player, a representative of the “lost generation” who has transformed his disillusionment into a badge of honor, and who thrives in the niche he has carved for himself because he maintains a strict policy of isolationism- as he puts it, “I stick my neck out for nobody.” It’s a strategy that works- at least until a romantic shadow from his past re-enters his life and forces him to choose between his self-protective shroud of indifference and a chance to use his position in the service of a greater good. It was a perfect metaphor for an America that was hesitant about entering WWII after becoming jaded by the long and painful hardship of the Great Depression, and to make the allegory crystal clear, the story is populated by an assortment of international characters in various states of uneasy alliance with an ever-more-insistent Nazi presence.

Of course, if Casablanca were only notable for its heavy-handed political parallels, it would never have stood the test of time and would be remembered only as a piece of pro-war propaganda. It is so much more than that. The backdrop of then-timely politics serves as a stage upon which a timeless and universal drama is played, in which a man, burned and haunted by the disappointment of his past, rediscovers his humanity; and the cornerstone which allows him to do so is also the primary reason for Casablanca‘s enduring popularity- the iconic romance at the heart of the action. Rick and Ilsa are without question one of the most famous pairs of star-crossed lovers in the history of film, perhaps even more so than Rhett and Scarlett. Their story tugs at the heart of anyone who has loved and lost- which means, of course, everyone- and the connection is all the stronger for those who have had the experience of losing it due to the intervention of larger forces beyond their control. Seeing this tender couple, played so perfectly and with such exquisite chemistry by Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, find their opportunity to be together in the middle of the momentous events swirling around them is both bittersweet and cathartic, and their famous, final exchange on the foggy nighttime runway is surely one of the most simultaneously heartbreaking and uplifting scenes in the history of cinema.

The romance may be the centerpiece of Casablanca, but Rick and Ilsa are fully realized characters on their own, too. Bogart, though he had been active for years as a second-string movie thug and had recently made a promising splash in The Maltese Falcon, here established once and for all the screen persona which made him one of Hollywood’s most durable stars. His Rick is the ultimate smooth operator, classy but rough-edged, sophisticated but down-to-earth, confidant but unassuming; one look and you know he is not only the toughest and most dangerous guy in the room, he’s probably also the smartest. To complete the picture, his wisecracking irony and his stoic demeanor do nothing to hide the noble and sensitive heart that beats inside him; it is clear from his very first moments onscreen that he is a man of honor, kindness, and charity, no matter how enmeshed he may seem in the dirty politics of Casablanca, and when he is revealed as a romantic and a champion of the underdog, it comes not as a surprise but rather as a triumphant confirmation of what we already know. It’s a role that seems tailor-made for Bogart, in retrospect, and it is virtually impossible to see how anybody else could have pulled it off. Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa, though not as defining a role for her as Rick was for Bogie, is nevertheless one of her most memorable creations; she is, of course, beautiful, but she also radiates sadness, nobility, compassion, and sophistication; at the same time, she wears her own shade of the resigned, hard-edged irony that colors Rick’s persona, and watching it melt away as their rekindled love transforms her into a passionate woman is one of the key elements of Casablanca. Besides all that, she also deserves a lot of respect for being able to credibly deliver some of the most ridiculously corny lines ever written for an actress.

Of course, Rick and Ilsa are not the only memorable characters on the scene: the entire cast, comprised of several of the era’s most familiar stock players (many of whom were real refugees from the Nazi Reich), turns in superb and memorable performances, far too many to mention here. It would be an unforgivable oversight, however, not to make special note of Claude Rains, as the charmingly corrupt police prefect, Renault, whose friendly rivalry and good-natured banter with Rick provides a grounding counterpoint to the love story, and whose heart of gold ultimately breaks through his cynical armor. Also iconic are the delicious turns by film noir staples Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet; the former as Ugarte, an unlucky black marketeer who seeks assistance and refuge at Rick’s nightclub (though he knows Rick “despises” him), and the latter as Signor Ferari, a bold-facedly opportunistic rival club owner with whom Rick has a grudgingly mutual respect. Dooley Wilson projects loyalty, patience and heart as Rick’s trusted piano player- and his warm rendition of the signature song, Herman Hupfield’s ”As Time Goes By,” is one of the most memorable aspects of the film. Conrad Veidt serves as the primary villain of the piece, an arrogant and bullying Nazi colonel whose deference to the local status quo is abandoned whenever it stands in the way of his absolute authority; a remarkably subtle and nuanced performance in a caricature of a role, delivered by one of Germany’s greatest actors, who, sadly, passed away soon afterward. Finally Paul Henreid manages the seemingly impossible task of making the character of Victor Laszlo- the underground resistance leader seeking escape from the Nazis through Casablanca, and Ilsa’s secret husband- not only believable in his too-good-to-be-true nobility but likable in spite of his position as the man standing between the film’s beloved romantic leads.

The many other delights of Casablanca are obvious in every frame. Most noticeable is its rich visual design, beautifully captured by Arthur Edeson’s lush black-and-white cinematography, which features a synthesis of exotic and stylish elements into a mythic landscape that contrasts modern utilitarianism with decorative antiquity, a continual and elaborate play of shadows, and fantasized notions of its mythic locale. The Casablanca of this film bears little resemblance to the real-life city which shares its name; it is pure Hollywood fantasy, designed to evoke the danger and intrigue associated with it in our imaginations. Rick’s café, a place where Western elegance is imposed upon the Moorish sensibilities of its architecture, provides the central base for the film- it feels familiar without being quite safe, an oasis in the harsh (but still irresistibly romanticized), foreign atmosphere which makes up the rest of the city. It’s a triumph of artistic design, influenced by Hollywood glamour and German Expressionism, and executed by Art Director Carl Jules Weyl and Set Decorator George James Hopkins. The costumes by Orry-Kelly similarly provide a distillation of the early forties visual milieu, giving us timeless styles flavored with fantasized exotica; in particular, the powerful simplicity of Bogart’s white-jacketed evening wear, which became an instant classic, still represents the epitome of elegance in male fashion. The musical score, by the legendary Max Steiner, is perhaps his definitive work, with its interpolation of familiar European anthems and the romantic melody of “As Time Goes By” into his own highly flamboyant and evocative compositions, and goes a long way toward setting the heightened tone which has burned Casablanca into the collective consciousness of subsequent generations.

All this excellent artistry is in the service of the film’s now-revered screenplay, by brothers Julius and Philip Epstein and Howard Koch, based on an obscure play, called Everybody Goes to Rick’s, by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison. It is now well-known that constant rewrites kept the actor and crew uncertain throughout production, with Bergman, for instance, never knowing during filming who she was supposed to be in love with, and nobody certain of how the film would end. This no doubt contributed to the cast’s loathing for the project at the time, and their belief that they were almost certainly making a horrible dog of a movie; fortunately, they were wrong. Loaded with now-familiar classic lines, marked by excessively melodramatic dialogue which nevertheless wins us over by its sheer audacity and the committed, straight-faced delivery of the cast, it’s a screenplay that transforms its time-specific scenario into a tale of eternal significance, an exciting and emotionally resonant portrayal of love and idealism blossoming in a hostile environment. The full power of these themes, however, might still have been lost or obscured without the contribution of Michael Curtiz, a versatile workman of a director who is often overlooked by cinema scholars despite an impressive and prolific body of work; with the skill of a master he weaves all the disparate threads together into a cohesive package, which revels in its intricately embellished atmosphere and its lush moods even as it drives its intrigue-laden plot at a steadily building pace towards its immensely satisfying conclusion.

Casablanca is full of memorable scenes: the capture of Ugarte, the arrival of Ilsa at Rick’s and the flashback to their romance in Paris, the cafe patrons drowning out the singing Nazis with a rousing chorus of “La Marsellaise.” Indeed, more than almost any other film, it seems a progression of one remarkable moment after another; but, finally, it is the ending that sticks with us. Rick and Ilsa’s farewell on the runway hits us in a place that the artificial thrills of the plot cannot, and it feels so right that it is impossible to believe that any other ending was ever considered. Then, right on its heels, there is the not-so-surprising defection of Captain Renault from the dark side, just in time to walk off into the foggy night with Rick for “the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” The emotional wallop is potent; and maybe the reason it hits us so hard has to do with the choice that affects us all, at one point or another, to serve our own needs or to sacrifice ourselves for the sake of others. In a world full of suspicion, greed, and deliberate cruelty- or even just a world where nobody wants to look like a sucker- it’s a tough choice to make, and maybe Casablanca affects us so deeply because it lets us believe in the notion of “doing the right thing” even when everyone else is afraid to. In a way, it’s a bridge between the noble sentimentality of a world long gone- if, indeed, it ever existed- and the hard-edged realism of the modern era. We are still human, after all, even in an inhuman world, and (as the song so aptly expresses it) “the fundamental things apply, as time goes by.”

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0034583/

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Pinocchio (1940)

Today’s cinema adventure: Pinocchio, Walt Disney’s 1940 animated feature, based on the classic children’s story by Carlo Collodi, about a puppet bestowed life in answer to a kindly woodcarver’s wish for a son. As the follow-up to Disney’s first foray into feature-length animation, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, it represented an enormous leap forward in the development of the art form, with the animators taking huge strides to overcome the difficulties they encountered- and correct the mistakes they had made- with their first effort, resulting in a visually stunning masterpiece which has, in many ways, never been surpassed. In particular, Pinocchio represents a watershed moment in the advancement of effects animation (as opposed to the character animation at which Disney’s artists were already adept), with its extensive depiction of such elements as fire, smoke, magic, and especially water, creating a dazzling and fully realized environment in which this metaphorical fairy tale can be played out. Additionally, thanks to the use of live action footage and articulated models (maquettes) as a reference for the animators, the film incorporates a level of realism which enhances its ability to engage and transport its audience, as well as featuring inventive angles and perspectives which would directly influence the advancement of cinematic technique in live-action filmmaking. Finally, Disney’s development of the multi-plane camera, which allowed the combination and separate manipulation of different layers of imagery within a single shot, yielded an illusion of depth which prefigured the use of 3-D technology, and helped to narrow the gap between live-action and animated filmmaking- a gap which grows ever smaller to this day.

Of course, it could go without saying that Pinocchio, as with all of the Disney features released during the initial Renaissance of the studio, has become a classic, revered as an iconic milestone in the genre of animation and beloved by generations of audiences as a cornerstone of family entertainment; indeed, critical appraisal of the film has been almost universally positive from the moment of its release, though the outbreak of WWII prevented it from becoming financially successful until it was reissued several years later. However, though its status as a pinnacle of animated art has never been questioned, there have been numerous dissensions over the years regarding its content. Much of the criticism revolves around the divergences Disney made from the source material in order to make a more marketable film: Pinocchio was transformed from a sarcastic, mischievous hooligan into an inexperienced, innocent naïf who is only led into trouble through his good-hearted gullibility, and his design was softened to resemble less the pointy-nosed, spindly marionette of the book than the real boy he will eventually become; the cricket, a minor character in the original story, was developed into a central figure and anthropomorphized to the point that, in the words of his supervising animator, Ward Kimball, “the only thing that makes him a cricket is because we call him one;” and a number of bizarre and/or gruesome incidents and characters were either removed or revised in order to present the story more as a heart-warming fable than as a cautionary tale. The objections to this sanitization of Collodi’s novel stand alongside countless protests surrounding the studio’s similar treatment of other classic sources, fueling the long-standing criticism of the studio for “Disney-fying” its material- producing films that subvert the original intention of the authors and sugar-coat their messages for the sake of appealing to the broadest possible audience.

Thankfully, it is not my role to determine the validity of either of this viewpoints here; though it seems to me they are criticisms based on opinions of what the film should be, rather than reactions to what it actually is. Pinocchio is, first and foremost, exactly what it was intended to be: a visually stunning and highly entertaining work of art. Whatever social or literary obligations the Disney artists might have disregarded, they succeeded beyond reasonable expectation in their goal to create a finished project that holds up to every standard of excellence- not only does Pinocchio exhibit a still-breathtaking mastery of technical skill, it features an intricate, meticulously executed artistic design that is evident in every frame. From the dozens of whimsical clockwork devices on display in Geppetto’s humble cottage, to the rustic Italian Alpine village in which the story is set, to the garish and foreboding over-stimulation of Pleasure Island, to the wonders of the undersea world where the climactic segment takes place; the entire film vibrates with a life and personality that can only result from the passion and enthusiasm of its creators. Even more remarkable is that all this dazzling work is never gratuitously applied, but is wholly dedicated in service to the story: the quantity and humor of Geppetto’s constructions speak volumes about his character, the lurid excess of Pleasure Island clues us into the menace lurking behind its surface, the painstakingly immersive depiction of the ocean environment transports us there with Pinocchio- every tiny detail serves a purpose, and instead of overwhelming us and reminding us of the artificiality of our experience, the richness and variety on display here draws us in and gives us the feeling that the world of Pinocchio is just as real as any place we have seen in our own lives- and perhaps even more so.

Of course, no matter how fully-realized this spectacular world may be, it must be populated if the story is to be told. The characters in Pinocchio– even the minor ones- are as richly developed as the elements which surround them, designed and animated to such specific perfection that the breadth of their characterization is visible in every frame they inhabit: Jiminy Cricket, with his instantly likable blend of gentility and earthiness; Honest John the Fox, the picture of tawdry pretension and avaricious hunger, and his mute sidekick Gideon the Cat, a sort of skeevy Harpo Marx; Stromboli, a menacingly immense combination of flamboyance, volatility and mean-spirited cruelty; Lampwick, the ultimate hoodlum, cocky and uncouth, yet ultimately pitiable as he suffers the direst fate of any character in the film; even Monstro the whale, aptly personifying the unstoppable, chaotic wrath of the universe; and, of course, Geppetto, lovably dotty and infinitely kind, with his pets, Figaro and Cleo, the lovable kitten and goldfish pair that provide gentle comic relief with their yin-and-yang interplay as they respond to the various events taking place around them. As for the star of the show, Pinocchio is crafted as the epitome of innocent boyhood; his sweet nature and his excitement for the brave new world before him are his defining characteristics, and he is in a constant state of action, exploring possibilities, embracing experiences, and honestly seeking to please- even when he lies to the Blue Fairy, we get the sense he is doing it as much to save her from disappointment as to save himself from trouble. As a result, he comes off as a plucky and enthusiastic young hero, instead of the cloying and disingenuous brat he could so easily have become if his creators had chosen to make him deliberately cute or precocious.

The personalities of all these now-iconic characters are a completed by a collection of carefully-chosen voices. Pinocchio was the beginning of a long Disney tradition (now standard for animated productions but at the time unprecedented) of utilizing seasoned and recognizable talent to provide the vocal contributions to their films, featuring Cliff Edwards (as the cricket, a then-popular singer well-known for his work on Broadway and early talkies), Walter Catlett (as the charlatan fox, another Broadway actor familiar to audiences at the time for a string of high-profile character roles in films like A Tale of Two Cities and Bringing Up Baby), Christian Rub (a distinctive and much-loved radio and film performer who not only gave Geppetto his voice but was used as a physical model for the character as well), Evelyn Venable (a popular screen ingénue renowned for her beauty, austere but warm as the Blue Fairy), and Dickie Moore (as Pinocchio, a seasoned child actor with several high-profile live-action roles under his belt). All of these, as well the other, lesser-known voices, fit their parts to perfection, as definitively as any live-action cast embodies their characters. It is impossible to imagine any other voices coming from the figures onscreen in Pinocchio– which is yet another testament to the gifted artists who brought them to life, incorporating the nuances of the already-recorded dialogue into their final rendering of the film, an effect that is perhaps not too unlike that of a motion-capture suit of today transforming an actor’s personality into an animated form.

As if all this sublime artistry were not enough, there is still the perfection of the musical score. Music plays an important part in every Disney classic, and it has never been better than in Pinocchio; the background score by Paul J. Smith is an indispensable part of the film’s character, as are the songs of Ned Washington and Leigh Harline, which are interwoven seamlessly to it throughout. Though all of these songs are well-known by generations of children who have grown up with them, one in particular (“When You Wish Upon a Star”) has become not only the signature tune of the Disney empire but an anthem for optimists the world over; as crooned by Edwards over the film’s opening credits, it sets a tone of wistful longing and lets us know that in the end, though there will be much adversity to be faced, everything will come out right.

It’s hard not to gush about Pinocchio: by way of disclaimer I have to admit that it was my favorite Disney movie as I was growing up, with its metaphor of “becoming a real boy” providing me with much food for thought on my way through childhood and adolescence. Despite this personal bias, I feel completely justified in my enthusiastic assessment of this film. It is still, over 70 years later, consistently listed as one of the top ten animated films of all time, and it has provided immeasurable influence not only on the art of cinema, but throughout popular culture in general. It is widely considered the pinnacle of achievement by the studio that created it (no small feat, considering their impressive track record) and it set a high standard for so-called “family films,” providing stimulating entertainment at all levels of maturity rather than just presenting formulaic pablum designed to occupy juvenile minds for 90 minutes- an egregious cheat still perpetrated by far too many so-called artists who churn out such sub-par, straight-to-DVD fodder. Though today’s high-tech animators can render remarkable imagery that looks far more realistic than anything in it, Pinocchio can hardly be called crude or primitive- it is a work of pure art, exquisitely produced using techniques which have fallen out of fashion in an era that seems only impressed by the newest innovations in a rapidly accelerating parade of obsolescence. Thankfully, it hasn’t gone anywhere: it is still out there, in home video cabinets the world over, captivating yet another generation of young minds and reconnecting parents to their own childhood, and thanks to painstaking restoration and the ready availability of high-resolution formats, it looks as good as new- perhaps even better (see, I do like technological advancement).

As for those who complain that the movie is not an authentic representation of Collodi’s novel, I think it is only right to point out that several other screen versions have been made of Pinocchio, many of them striving to remain much closer to the source material. Without exception, they have all bombed, both critically and financially. Perhaps the latest incarnation, currently in production and starring Harry Potter’s Daniel Radcliffe, can break that unfortunate cycle; but until it, or yet another attempt, succeeds, the Disney version will continue to reign supreme.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0032910/