The Boy and the Heron

2023

Director: Hayao Miyazaki

Words – Ben Matthews.

The Boy and the Heron is potentially the final release from anime director Hayao Miyazaki, and though for a time The Wind Rises (2013) was credited as his closing accomplishment, it doesn’t come anywhere near as close to this in its feeling of absolute resolution and closure. Following the release of that film, Miyazaki publicly announced his retirement from directing, before returning to direct an exclusive short film for the cinema at the Ghibli museum in 2018. After the positive experience of working on Boro The Caterpillar, he began the storyboards for what would eventually become The Boy and the Heron.
His Studio Ghibli co-founder and career-long producer, Toshio Suzuki, said that Miyazaki’s main motivation with the project was to create a parting gift for his grandson. To say “Grandpa is moving on to the next world, but he’s leaving behind this film”. It takes its Japanese title from the novel, How do you Live?, but bears little resemblance to its actual story, allowing Miyazaki to explore this question in his own unique way, taking influence from the books he enjoyed as a child, as well as his own recollections of the time.

Mahito fills the role of Miyazaki’s protagonist here, a young Japanese boy struggling with the devastating loss of his mother during the second world war. This atmosphere of universal grief is central to the film, and while it isn’t exactly new thematic ground for the director, he explores it in a way which feels entirely different to how he has before. The depiction of post-war Japan is largely lifted from his own recollections of it, being born in 1941 and growing up in a period of tragic loss. For this reason Mahito is one of the more mature Miyazaki leads, not undergoing a full coming of age during the film itself, undergoing more of a reaffirmation of his age and place within an uncertain world.
It is after his mother’s death that he moves to the agricultural home of his new step-mother, Natsuko (his mother’s sister). While struggling to adapt to his new home and family, Mahito’s attention turns to a grey heron which stalks the grounds of the house, eventually following it into a tower built by Natsuko’s grand-uncle, a portal to a world cohabited by both the living and the dead.

The split between the grim reality of post-war Japan and the magic of the realm found within the old tower, feel almost symbolic of the two distinct halves of Ghibli itself; the influence of Isao Takahata’s realism in the real world (Miyazaki’s mentor and Studio Ghibli co-founder), and the unmistakable Miyazaki fantasy found within the tower. It almost feels redundant to say that the fantasy is astonishing, it’s as grand in scale as Princess Mononoke, but feels more internally focused like an earlier film such as My Neighbour Totoro. There are few sequences devoted to Mahito running around exclaiming his shock as Chihiro does in some of Spirited Away’s more horrifying opening scenes. Instead it achieves more of the atmosphere felt at the end of that film, particularly during the melancholic train journey shared by Chihiro and No-Face.
Miyazaki presents the scenario in a beautiful way, but makes no effort to hold the viewer’s hand while explaining the intended emotion. This is only ever enhanced by a masterful Joe Hisaishi score, being of a much grander scale than some of the more minimalist work he’s known for. His contribution to a Miyazaki film should never be understated, it’s the two creatives working in combination that conjure some of the most memorable moments.

While Mahito serves as the film’s central figure, the great-uncle emerges as a poignant reflection of Miyazaki’s own introspections and anxieties. Acting as a lonely wizard at the centre of his own world, he worries about the legacy of his creation. He sees Mahito as a hopeful candidate for taking his place after his death, with him being of his bloodline and possessing the attributes necessary for the task.
It’s no coincidence that this dynamic is reminiscent of the one we have seen play out in real life between Miyazaki and his son Goro. He is an important current figure in his fathers studio, having directed a few films including Earwig and the Witch, the controversial 2020 film released by Studio Ghibli which broke away from the previous aesthetic of 2D animation. While showing enthusiasm in his work as a director, his ambition seems to lie more in landscape architecture and design, having contributed to Ghibli’s own Japanese theme park and museum.
The film’s climax explores Mahito’s rejection of the offer, as he wants to write his own story with his family in the real world. One of the great gifts to any animator is their total control of all aspects of film language, Miyazaki’s work is perhaps where this can be appreciated the most. The wizard’s building bricks being the source of an entire world acts as a neat symbol of this craft, and one which he is protective of, as the consequences of when it falls into the wrong hands prove to be disastrous.
In combination with each other, Mahito and his great-uncle create the perfect self-inserted voice for Miyazaki, from someone looking back on their own life and contemplating the legacy they will ultimately leave, as well as someone still coming to terms with a lifetime of personal losses.

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When discussing a great ageing filmmaker, such as Miyazaki, you can begin to trace their life through their work. For most filmmakers the two seem to become blurred; The Boy and the Heron brings to mind Kurosawa’s Dreams, Scorsese’s The Irishman, Spielberg’s The Fablemans.
It is one achievement to have directed a classic film, but a reflective late career masterpiece is able to project them into another echelon of artists entirely. This is particularly true when discussing Miyazaki’s early work with Studio Ghibli, in direct relation to The Boy and the Heron. His path from being a technically ambitious young animator, to being the first recognised auteur in his medium, is nothing short of legendary.

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