Hayao Miyazaki’s latest film has two titles.
The Boy and the Heron is the title for Western territories, as straightforward as his other English titles. (Howl’s Moving Castle is about, well, a moving castle owned by a wizard named Howl.) In Japan, its title translates to “How Do You Live?” a more ambiguous and intriguing name. The mystery borne from its Japanese title aligned well with Studio Ghibli’s promotional effort before its release: there was none. Apart from a hand-drawn poster, the studio did not market the film, encouraging its Japanese audiences to experience it blind. Of all the questions one could ask about Miyazaki’s purported final movie, the most interesting one might be, which title is more true?
Let’s set that question aside for a moment. The Boy and the Heron is the story of Mahito, a young boy whose family is upended by war. After an air raid kills his mother, Mahito and his father Shoichi move to a countryside estate with Natsuko, his pregnant aunt and new stepmother. Still grieving his mother’s loss, Mahito is polite but distant. He is unable, or unwilling, to connect with Natsuko and the older women living on the estate despite their efforts. What gives Mahito purpose is the gray heron living on the estate that follows and pesters him wherever he goes. The heron is a magical, cunning creature that taunts Mahito with promises of reuniting him with his mother. The bird lures him to a mystical world with deep familial ties, setting him on a fateful and transformative journey.
The Boy and the Heron is classic Miyazaki, where relatable but compelling characters unlock worlds that exceed the possibilities of our imaginations. Those worlds – the forested countryside and the multi-leveled spiritual plane inhabited by a mysterious master and various creatures – are exquisitely detailed. Every background and set design pulsates with life, whether it’s the dense, lush greens and browns that frame the outdoors or the opulent reds that color the master bedroom. Miyazaki’s commitment to capturing the complex beauty of every still or frantic moment is as fierce as ever, as is his intense care for his character designs. Whimsy and warmth pervade every being, from the adorably small and charmingly simplistic waruwaru to the heron at its most boiled and grotesque. A decade after The Wind Rises, Miyazaki continues operating at an impossibly high visual standard.
And yet, the director strives for even greater heights. Beneath Miyazaki’s superlative standard is a work of overwhelming ambition built upon four decades of animation’s most storied career. He references nearly every film in his oeuvre, refining and maturing his visual metaphors in surprising ways. He evokes Porco Rosso’s afterlife parade of airplanes in a sequence of spirit-driven ships against a beautiful sunlit horizon. The waruwaru, the spiritual cousins of Princess Mononoke’s kodama, serve an even more powerful function here, reflecting both the innocence and cruelty of the natural balance. Beyond recalling his work, Miyazaki also reacts to his medium’s evolution for sources of innovation. He responds to Makoto Shinkai, director of Your Name and Suzume, with his own spin on the spirituality within empty spaces, decorating them with splashes of striking but slightly faded colors. This work belongs to a director discontent with resting on their substantive laurels.
Miyazaki’s visual and thematic ambition is intimately tied to the Japanese title, How Do You Live? The title is his guiding philosophical question, delivered against paralyzing grief. At first, Miyazaki doesn’t have an answer. He dedicates the first half of the movie to fully exploring Mahito’s crippling depression. Mahito sleepwalks through life amidst Miyazaki’s stunning landscapes, composer Joe Hisaishi underscoring his exhaustion, self-loathing, and inability to feel. Drawing from his own life, Miyazaki has never been more vulnerable. He bravely centers the film’s breathtaking, devastating pain and agony to the audience. (It should forever silence the pedantic, condescending notion that animation is only for children.) Miyazaki’s honesty pays resplendent thematic and visual dividends. His use of fire (a noted departure from his preferred element of air) in Mahito’s reimaginings of his mother’s death makes for the best scenes of his career.
Mahito’s journey through the spiritual world frames Heron’s second half. It also juggles answering the film’s central question with creating a fulfilling fantasy story akin to Spirited Away. Narratively, Miyazaki’s aim slightly exceeds his reach. While the story works in broad strokes, peppered with engaging humor, characters, and creatures, the pieces waver under scrutiny. The world’s rules and functions aren’t entirely clear, nor are the roles of the parakeets and pelicans and their tenuous relationship with the tower master. It leaves the film’s middle half looking stunning but feeling aimless. The thematic threads remain strong throughout, coalescing into a thrilling and powerful emotional conclusion.
The film’s conclusion resolves the question in its Japanese title: How do you live? Specifically, how do you live amidst grief? Miyazaki answers that grief is a natural part of life and is, therefore, worth experiencing. However, grief isn’t the only experience. You can exist alongside grief and its complex network of emotions while moving forward. One way to do that is to keep yourself open and to accept love and support when offered and needed. It isn’t always the easiest path, but it frees you from the mental, emotional, and spiritual bonds that freezes you in space and time.
If Hayao Miyazaki did conceive it as his last movie, The Boy and the Heron is a stunning closer, where the director looks inward to chart the path to an imminent future without him. His introspection, self-critique, and aspirations to further advance his storycraft yields a masterwork of intensely vulnerable depth. It reinforces his sincere belief that life triumphs over all, even at the end.
And so back to that initial question. How Do You Live rings most true to Miyazaki’s vision. However, the titles are irrelevant. The experience of immersing yourself in fantastical worlds that speak in achingly intimate and universally profound tones transcends language and culture. It is core to the irreplaceable beauty of his creative genius. The most startling truth about this film, whether or not it’s his last? The world will be lesser when he’s gone.
The Boy and The Heron held its International Premiere as part of the Gala Presentations section at the 2023 Toronto International Film Festival. It is set to be released in theaters nationally in the US and Canada on December 8, 2023 courtesy of GKIDS.
Director: Hayao Miyazaki
Writer: Hayao Miyazaki
Rated: NR
Runtime: 124m
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7EDFdA10pg]
If Hayao Miyazaki did conceive it as his last movie, The Boy and the Heron is a stunning closer, where the director looks inward to chart the path to an imminent future without him. His introspection, self-critique, and aspirations to further advance his storycraft yields a masterwork of intensely vulnerable depth. It reinforces his sincere belief that life triumphs over all, even at the end.
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GVN Rating
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