I love when an animated world falls apart. I love when there is formal collapse, an existential admission that even in universes painted and drawn, it’s all barely holding together. When something is so clearly created, tearing it down in the same breath is grand and petty all at once, like Seinfeld‘s all-encompassing faux pas. Few pieces of art can truly capture the feeling of a spiraled catastrophe, and even fewer can make it fun. It makes life’s cruel absurdities a little more tolerable when you realize that even Daffy Duck can’t escape his omnipotent trickster god in Duck Amuck. The crumbling, tactile surrealism of Don Herzfeldt’s Rejected ironically grounds us in its simplicity: Instability afflicts us all, stick figures and giant bananas alike. The suffering and chaos of these cartoons is hilarious, relatable—even soothing. Their bodies warp. The very barriers of their worlds shatter. The paper they are drawn upon is balled up and thrown away. And in our laughter (masking and/or accompanying our horror) is relief. But the best animated movie of 2023, Hayao Miyazaki’s The Boy and the Heron, offers a disintegrating visualization of artistic world-building that is both endlessly open to interpretation and undeniably optimistic.
You might think, since The Boy and the Heron is the alleged swan song of the Studio Ghibli co-founder, that Miyazaki views the unavoidable life cycle of artistry—inspiration, influence, atrophy, obscurity—bittersweetly. Perhaps all the more so considering that he poured himself, as our Autumn Wright observes, into both the heroic-yet-flawed Mahito (Soma Santoki) and his obsessive Granduncle (Shōhei Hino).
Mahito’s journey through a fantastical kingdom is one of wondrous discovery and acceptance, while his god-king Granduncle (who read too many books and lost his mind) tinkers with his creation in the winter of his life. One is coming of age in a magical world, the other seeing his reign over that world end. These are the two poles of life’s finite trajectory and, very loosely, the two characters of Genzaburo Yoshino’s book How Do You Live?, which The Boy and the Heron adapts. The Boy and the Heron has time-earned wisdom to impart, though it’s not embittered towards the young or precious about the old. These characters are seeing their familiar lives slip from their grasps, and they fight this transition tooth and nail. But, among its myriad readings, The Boy and the Heron is a film about embracing change—even when it crashes down upon you.
Opening with an Expressionist WWII inferno, The Boy and the Heron’s hectic flames initially bring nothing but loss to Mahito. His mother dies in the blaze. But in these ashes, and in the ruins to come, there is the chance for ecological succession—hardy new growth springing up after a wildfire. Mahito just can’t see it yet.
The shell-shocked beginning, where Mahito wanders quietly through his new life in the countryside, is shaken back to reality by a symbol of unreality’s potential: The Tower. This landmark spans dimensions, not unlike Stephen King’s Dark Tower, and was erected long ago by his Granduncle. It is here that Mahito can save his aunt-turned-stepmom Natsuko (Yoshino Kimura)–no wonder the kid is having a hard time at home—and, in so doing, accept her. While she isn’t replacing his mother, she is an addition to his life after this loss. If that’s too subtle, she’s also pregnant with Mahito’s half-sibling.
The broad images Miyazaki paints across Granduncle’s constructed world repeat this pattern, abundant with simple, mythic symbolism. The wartime setting carries with it atomic anxiety and hope for its aftermath. What is possible in the rubble of the past? The eventual collapse of the tower-verse, filled with a literally bird-brained military, takes place as an Empire violently ends and a new nation tentatively emerges in Japan.
The soul-like warawara that Mahito encounters (the blobbiest blobs Ghibli has produced yet) are hungry little babies ready to be born, floating to the real world in spirals not unlike a double helix. The pelicans that gobble the warawara up, and are subsequently shot down in flames, mimic fighter planes and their pilots. One casualty, whom Mahito finds flightless and bloodied, laments the forces beyond its control that brought it here. It’s an unjust world, made by a fallible creator. Birth and death are terribly close together. Cruelty is the only way to survive. Unless, of course, you tear it all down.
When Mahito first talks to his Granduncle, the spiky-haired wizard is managing a tiny tower of toy blocks. It’s the world’s toughest Jenga set, all archways and cylinders. There’s power in the small stones, but the boy notices that it’s not without its baggage: These potent artifacts are carved from the stuff of graves—headstones and mausoleum marble. When Granduncle tells Mahito that he needs a successor, from his bloodline, to take over as Supreme Stacker, Mahito declines. Those blocks, these materials, aren’t for him.
The second time they meet, Granduncle asks again for Mahito to stay in this bird-filled dreamscape, to inherit this creative responsibility and, if those blocks weren’t the right fit for him, to reshape this world in his own image. Mahito declines again, this time citing his own imperfections.
It’s easy to see the autobiography in this part of Mahito’s quest. Aside from the connections to Miyazaki’s Ghibli peers, his son Goro is actively following in his filmmaking footsteps; he recently directed the (poorly received) Ghibli movie Earwig and the Witch. Though Miyazaki is, inexplicably, not slowing down with age, he is more explicitly grappling with what it means to hand over your life’s work. Whether this massive project Granduncle has built—an imaginative alternate universe filled with silly little guys, bucolic landscapes, mouth-watering meals, unexpected dangers, and heartfelt life lessons—flourishes or withers is up to those that come after. A legacy is only half-formed while you’re still alive.
That’s the easy part. The obvious stuff. The more pressing questions this moment raises, and the ones that make the finale of The Boy and the Heron so moving, are those that follow. One involves the morality of passing on your life’s work: Is it a blessing to bequeath a lifetime of creative effort, or a curse to assign your obsessions to someone else? Are you so proud that you assume that your creation is worth not only your own time here, but someone else’s? The next question looks further forward, and wonders if the previous questions are moot: Is it ok for a world to fall apart?
Before Mahito and his Granduncle can discuss divine nepotism further, the pompous Parakeet King (this world is clearly getting away from its ancient caretaker), disrupts the blocks. The magic plane of existence immediately reacts, warping and quaking. Granduncle’s meadow shatters into tectonic plates, gashes tear the ground asunder; the palatial entrance twists while the tower interior, filled with dimensional doors, floods. But there’s a surprising lack of terror in this evacuation. Nobody hangs from a cliff trying to milk fake thrills. Joe Hisaishi’s score doesn’t tense up. In fact, his track “The Great Collapse” is filled with light, rising strings and majestic piano. It’s the music not of apocalypse, but of manna. It’s hurried and poignant—a world is ending after all—but orderly. You might cry, but like most Ghibli movies, your tears will come from multiple emotional tributaries. Why be too sad? After all, The Boy and the Heron itself accepts its destructive finale.
There’s far more danger entering this world when it’s under control than exiting it as it falls to ruin. Part of that is due to the imperfection of this quasi-fascist bird-based society, but most is due to the personal growth of Mahito and his companions. Even the young girl Mahito meets along the way, warned of a deadly fate, is unfazed as she returns to her proper time and place. Mahito and his companions (and a ton of pooping parakeets) fly back out into their home, restored to their proper form and reunited with family. As the fantasy falls away, reality stands stronger than ever.
A throughline of Miyazaki heroes is their psychic malleability. They can accept and adapt, roll with endlessly amazing punches, and come out the other side intact. There is flexibility in youth—an elasticity of the soul that can seem like magic to those of us old enough to look back upon it. That quality enables the resilience at the heart of The Boy and the Heron. It’s a resilience that doesn’t just persist, determined, through the inevitable pain life will bring. It’s one able to recognize the transformative value in adversity.
Some days, I feel like Mahito’s Granduncle. Hair unruly, probably haven’t had enough coffee, alone in my tower, stacking my stupid blocks in a precarious yet familiar balancing act. I’m sure you feel this too. Day in and day out, returning to the disparate shapes and arranging them, somehow, into something relatively stable—something that gets my little corner of the world by. Is there a better way? Do I need to keep wrestling the orb onto the tip of the cone? I wonder, as we all wonder, but the fear of everything collapsing is greater than my curiosity.
But every abstraction within The Boy and the Heron speaks to a single message: That falling apart is just the first step. As Mahito rejects his Granduncle’s world, he accepts his new life and (admittedly awkward) new family. As Japan’s government is dismantled and reassembled, it welcomes a new age of possibility. As Miyazaki appends another finale to his career, he faces his traumatic pet themes assured that those coming after him will always grow beyond him.
When fictional worlds implode in the third act, it’s usually cathartic. The self-destructing secret bases of James Bond, the booby-trapped tombs of Indiana Jones and Lara Croft—these are countdowns to freedom, to escape and safety. But usually, the heroes are just happy to return to the status quo. Maybe they left the relic inside, saving only their own skins. Maybe they let the villain get away, valuing the lives of innocents over revenge. But The Boy and the Heron bursts back to its real world with something else. Freedom. Lightness. Eagerness. When the Parakeet King slices swaths of chaos across his creator’s primal LEGOs, it is tragic and explosive. It is also a gift. Don’t you ever want to give into the cosmic urge to blow up your own life? This is Ghibli self-destruction: Rebirth, baptized by bird shit.
Studio Ghibli will never be the same after Miyazaki dies. But he leaves us, for now at least, with clear-eyed acceptance and boundless hope. The Boy and the Heron reminds us that when a towering goodbye collapses, its pieces become thousands of possible hellos.
Jacob Oller is Movies Editor at Paste Magazine. You can follow him on Twitter at @jacoboller.
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