Mixing child murder, Italian fascism, slapstick, anti-war/anti-Catholic sentiments, political puppets, musical and melodrama, Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio painfully struggles to cater to adults and kids alike, which Netflix shockingly labels "appropriate for 7 years old and above."

The Oscar-winning Mexican filmmaker — sharing screenwriting credits with Patrick McHale and directing credits with Mark Gustafson — spoon-feeds the audience in his visually impressive, stop-motion animated movie.

At the start, the narrator, Sebastian J. Cricket (Ewan McGregor), announces it's a story of "imperfect fathers and imperfect sons" — to make sure that you "get" the tale, especially if you're only 7 years old.

I'm not a dad, and I do not have traumatic issues with my father, so I was emotionally detached from the various tragic father-son relationships depicted in the movie: Geppetto (hysterically voiced by David Bradley) and Carlo/Pinocchio (Gregory Mann); Podestá (Ron Perlman) and Candlewick (Finn Wolfhard ); and Volpe (Christophe Waltz, in an exhausting, stereotypical, abusive role) and his monkey slave named Spazzatura (Cate Blanchett), which is Italian for "garbage."

Knowing Del Toro, with his trademark dark and gothic-fantasy cinema — or filmic alchemy — it is silly to expect an adaptation of the 1940s Disney animated film, but more of Carlo Collodi's original 19th-century novel, with visuals inspired by Gris Grimly's 2003 book.

Set in fascist Italy, Geppetto loses his angelic son Carlo, which is the only emotionally resonant scene for its palpable sense of loss. Still possessed by inconsolable despair 20 years later, Geppetto carves a marionette out of a pine tree to assuage his sorrow. Then a blue wooden sprite (Tilda Swinton) brings the puppet to life and names him Pinocchio without consulting Geppetto.

The result of this sorcery is an intolerable boy puppet you wish could just shut up.

Geppetto shares my sheer annoyance with the hyperactive puppet, who feels like the reincarnation of the unbearable boy from 2011's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close. So, he calls him a burden. Ouch.

Weird, Pinocchio doesn't know what hot chocolate is, but understands the concept of profits. He doesn't know what a clock is but is so politically aware, he makes fun of Mussolini. He doesn't know what a school is but makes a sharp observation that he and the Catholics' crucified Jesus are both made of wood.

Then he asks why the townsfolk prefers the wooden man on the cross over him. Let me tell you why, Pinocchio: You are creepily animated and irritating, while the other graven image is silent, like a literal piece of wood.

Perhaps Del Toro is taking jabs at Catholicism and idolatry. Or, maybe he likens Pinocchio to Christ himself, a sacrificial lamb because Pinocchio dies and is risen from the dead and is crucified at some point. Or maybe del Toro finds Jesus a puppet, too.

But Pinocchio lies. Jesus does not.

Sebastian, the conscience-cricket, is cliched for a self-described novelist. He spews phrases like "Love hurts." Cringe.

Maybe it's because of the harshly panned Pinocchio by Robert Zemeckis (also released this year) that Del Toro's version has become a masterpiece to critics.

But take away the comparison and Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio's mixed bag is reduced to a forced, disjointed, insufferable melodrama.

1 out of 5 stars
Streaming on Netflix