Totoro For The Young And The Old: On Hayao Miyazaki’s Transcendental Cinema

In the sultry September, nearly 6,000 kilometres away from Studio Ghibli in Tokyo, my friend watched Spirited Away (2001) on a borrowed Netflix account. “I always preferred Disney’s animation because of its brighter colour scheme. But watching Spirited Away during that period left me with a deeply positive feeling,” she tells me. My Neighbour Totoro (1988) got her hooked to Miyazaki’s world. It became a means of survival in the limbo of the lockdown. “Miyazaki reminded me that the child within doesn’t have to die down with adulting. The colours of nature in these films soothed me, while the soulful music calmed my nerves.” 

Four years since, reading about Miyazaki winning the Ramon Magsaysay award reminded me of my friend’s anecdotes. It was startling to see a figure like Finance Minister Nirmala Sitharaman also laud the Japanese animator for his cinematic endeavours. “Anime have much for adults and Miyazaki serves them like a magician”, she wrote on X . So what is it about Miyazaki that enthrals such a wide range of audiences? 

There is, of course, the stunning hand-drawn artwork in these films that fascinates the eye. In the world of animation, noted for its nuanced technological advancement, Miyazaki’s stubborn handiwork continues to stand out for its painstaking detailing. But it is the imagination these paintings capture that draws the viewer into these films. Miyazaki, born in 1941, bore witness to a war-torn Japan from a very early age. This is perhaps why child protagonists navigating the hardships of adulthood through fantastical journeys form persisting subjects in his films. Totoro, one of Miyazaki’s most popular fantasy creatures, is significant in his appeal for retaining the innocence of childhood. 

The charm of his narration also lies in imbricating overarching themes of environmentalism and pacifism with stories for children. The child protagonists of Miyazaki’s films, especially young girls, are often mature and assertive, with complex emotions. Yet their sense of awe and wonder is alive. His world-making does not assume a passive audience that needs to be spoon-fed the film’s messages. Instead, the viewer is invited to wander in the fantasies alongside the protagonists, to derive their own meanings from the visceral cinematic experience. In many senses, this explains how the love for these films transcends linguistic barriers and the limits of exposure to specific cultural references. 

The Boy and the Heron (2023), Miyazaki’s latest film— made after the fourth announcement of his retirement—navigates a child’s realisation of the profound loss of his mother. To make peace with the rapid changes in his life, Mahito must find a way to return to a world where his past will be left behind. Interestingly though, the legendary filmmaker also reflects on his own life and filmography in its narrative. A film about forgetting and moving on thus becomes a film about remembering. However, even the uninitiated—who may not be familiar with Studio Ghibli’s earlier productions or with Miyazaki’s personal journey—can still find themselves absorbed into the parallel universes within the film. This happens through the carefully paced narrative and moments of philosophical reflection that linger beyond profilmic time. 

This is perhaps why they say—there’s a little something in Miyazaki for everybody.