I won’t pretend to be an expert in film studies. And I’m certainly not going to pretend to be as well-versed in Studio Ghibli films as I’d like to be. But each Ghibli film I have watched has left a noticeable impression on me. I hold the memory of each one close to my heart. Miyazaki’s new The Boy and the Heron (2023) has certainly lived up to these expectations.

At the age of five, my brother and I got our hands on a pirated DVD copy of The Castle of Cagliostro (1979) and we were spellbound by its dynamic protagonist. At the age of ten, watching Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989) taught me the value of compassion and, at fifteen, My Neighbour Totoro (1988) left my face laden with tears. Dramatic, you might say, but I prefer the term profound. Even if the plot wasn’t particularly sad in itself, the film made me long for my childhood at a time when my transition to adulthood felt rocky.

My brother didn’t ask any questions: he hugged me with a knowing smile. He understood. And that is the power of Ghibli animation. They make you feel and share real emotion, all while depicting a largely surreal world. They aren’t just cartoons. Vibrant colours, inspiring protagonists, and spell-binding storylines allow children and adults alike to escape reality for two hours. Miyazaki immerses our senses by transporting us to different worlds – full of colours and fantastical creatures – while still exploring the breadth of human emotions and delivering poignant messages about our world today.

5 Jan 2024, 20:45  – Prince Charles Cinema, London.

My brother and I make our way through the tight streets of Soho, still packed with tourists and adorned with Christmas decorations, to reach the Prince Charles’ Cinema. I had bought tickets for us to watch The Boy and the Heron (2023) just days after it was released in the UK at the end of the year. I knew too well that picking a cinephile’s favourite cinema would earn me some good-sister points.

The sign at the entrance in big, bold letters “THE BOY AND THE HERON: SOLD OUT” made the night feel more exclusive. This wasn’t just another film screening. The Boy and The Heron is Hayao Miyazaki’s first feature film in ten years. After the release of The Wind Rises in 2013, and at the age of 72, the co-founder of Studio Ghibli had declared his retirement. A well-earned one, I would say, after his astonishing career. It is therefore a given that a frenzy of excitement followed the announcement of the new film to all Ghibli fans around the world.

Japan, Pacific War, c.1944 : Mahito’s grief for his mother.

The Boy and The Heron (2023) follows the story of a young boy from Tokyo, Mahito, who loses his mother in a bombing raid. Though Miyazaki himself did not lose his mother at a young age, this film is the most autobiographical of the films he has written and directed, drawing significant inspiration from his life.

The audience is immediately immersed into the defining tragedy of the film: the first scene follows Mahito running towards his mother’s hospital with bated breath, currently engulfed by flames. His father, a wealthy fighter plane industrialist (just like Miyazaki’s own father) marries his late wife’s sister and they then relocate to the countryside.

It is here that Mahito is followed by a talking Heron (at first ominous and, later, humorous). Their playful yet complicated dynamic develops as they enter a parallel fantastical world which combines past, future and present in the search for his mother. The film revisits themes and devices familiar to fans, notably Spirited Away (2001). But I would argue that The Boy and the Heron is Miyazaki’s metaphysically and emotionally complex creation because of the vast number of interpretations we can draw from it.

There is also something deeply poignant beneath the ethereal landscapes of The Boy and the Heron. Some of my favourite scenes are those of quiet contemplation, such as Mahito standing in long stalks of lime-green grass rippling in the soft breeze. The use of silence in the film makes you feel the grief, loss and acceptance more deeply. It works more as a silent film, a kind of sensory experience. Its fusion of strangeness and tragedy is hypnotising, and a desperate reminder of the importance of dreams in a world full of suffering.

Studio Ghibli, 2024: How do you live?

The Boy and the Heron is able to function as a child’s fable as well as a metaphor for the director’s career. The scene towards the end of the movie with Mahito and the old magician comes with a rich symbolic pathos. It functions as a deeply moving farewell from Miyazaki, without turning it into a self-commentary. Mahito’s journey is able to stand on its own: all in all, it is a beautiful allegory about letting children live for themselves beyond the legacy we leave behind for them.

The ending poem in The Wind Rises ruminates on the beauty of life, and also death. Jiro, the protagonist, repeats the line “The wind rises, you must live”. And this, I would argue, is the main question which The Boy and the Heron explores. Aptly, the Japanese title for the film is How do you live?. How can Mahito continue to live in a world without his mother, and away from his birthplace? How can Miyazaki, at the age of 83, live beyond his career? How can one retire when there is so much uncertainty about who will become the new face of Ghibli?

No matter the outcome, there seems to be a quiet acceptance that it is out of Miyazaki’s control.