![]() Misguided or not, the kids in Pinocchio are at least clamouring to visit Pleasure Island, which is more than can be said for the pint-sized inmates of Stephen King’s meaty, satisfying slab of high-concept pulp fiction. Come daybreak they will have been transformed into donkeys, herded into crates and put to work in the mines. ![]() They can drink and smoke and shoot pool at their leisure, blissfully unaware that the theme park is, in fact, a nightmarish factory or sulphurous processing plant. At Pleasure Island, behind high, bolted gates, the town’s tearaways are promised a life free from societal interference. ![]() “E ver been to Pleasure Island?” asks Lampwick, the rowdy, doomed delinquent from Disney’s Pinocchio, as the stagecoach spirits a cargo of children through the darkened streets and clear out of the world. ![]()
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