Have I not talked about Studio Ghibli or Hayao Miyazaki before? Let’s fix that.
Both are names very near and dear to anyone with even a sophomore feel on the realm of animation. Even Miyazaki’s first feature, 1979’s Castle of Cagliostro, is far more reaching in its influence than you may think, even on western directors like Brad Bird and arguably Spielberg too. And since Ghibli began, it marked itself as world-renowned for its artistic prowess—every feature sporting absolutely gorgeous backdrops, uncompromised levels of direction, and, well, just good old fashioned wonder. There’s something for everyone in their catalogue—there’s escapism for younger kids with My Neighbor Totoro, high-flying adventure for older ones with Castle in The Sky, and modern slice of life comedy with My Neighbors The Yamadas. I could go on all day about their output, but I also just wanted to add that, being someone with the composition of granite, I assuredly did not completely tear up at the end of The Tale of Kaguya. No way. Nu-uh. Didn’t happen.
Miyazaki is something of a grumpy old grandpa in the world of anime, but for his contributions to the medium, he’s got every right to be as far as I’m concerned. I was tempted to start with his second outing, Nausicaa, which is still well worth a watch any day—but for its 25th, let’s look at a personal favorite of mine. Steeped in Japanese history and folklore, it’s a tale of gods, men, and beasts—and a little like Pocahontas, except it doesn’t insult my intelligence.
The opening to the film is a great one—showcasing everything Miyazaki is great at in short order. I want to rave about the technical aspects to get them out of the way—we’re introduced to of course Ghibli’s characteristic amazing painted backgrounds, we’ve got incredible lighting as we’re introduced to our hero racing through a forest, and we’ve got a monster made of thousands of parasites constantly moving in every conceivable direction. All of this is hardly easy to do, especially back then—but this never held Hayao back. And, to get a little far ahead, another thing I like is the film goes to the effort to establish distinct styles of movement for its characters, where lesser productions would just recycle animations. The titular princess moves and leaps ferally, constantly crouching, where her opponent Lady Eboshi moves with steeled bushido discipline—it might seem minor, but these little touches always add up.
The storyline is just as interesting too—following the attack on his village, tribal prince Ashitaka is sent to find out the cause, with there also being a corrupted wound on himself from the beast to add more urgency. Entering a feudal conflict between shoguns, he ends up being drawn to a settlement called Irontown—which happens to be at war with neighboring tribe of numen wolves that have raised for themselves a human girl San, the titular Mononoke. As is often with Miyazaki, the conflict isn’t that clear cut—the villagers of Irontown, themselves mostly outcasts, are friendly folk who are simply oblivious to what they’ve done by clearing out the forest for their advancements, whereas many of the animal spirits trying to fight back are soon corrupted by sheer rage into rabid rampaging abominations.
The aforementioned Lady Eboshi, leader of the town, definitely makes for an interesting antagonist—welcoming, yet uncompromising, and unafraid to personally hunt down a forest god with a rifle. Well, she’s the closest thing to an antagonist—the unseen Emperor, happy to goad on the conflict, and his samurai peons are much better fits, even if their presence is intermittent (though I guess represented by a memorable priest character, who still proves more mercenary than anything).
That theme of revenge cycles, of refusal to compromise leading only to bitterness, is our running theme—and Ashitaka is the one in the middle struggling to find a a way between. What he’s dealing with is best exemplified in the classic shot of San staring with contempt across a river, mouth bloodstained, which made it onto the poster—though she proves far friendlier when talking with her adopted lupine kin. In perhaps one of the slightly clunkier scenes, Ashitaka essentially spells out said themes, with the rage-fuelled wound overtaking him being made clear as the metaphor for this—but the rest of the film makes up for it by being all too happy to show the consequences of blind antagonism.
The art only continues to ramp itself up as we go. There's the titanic primordial god we see that's both beautiful and horrifying, and the climax, where the ruptured essence of said deity spills out like a corrupting wave, is very well executed—the film isn’t afraid at all to get most visceral. There’s never a loss of scale, as we're treated to assorted battles of both samurai and beasts—it does feel like something best watched on a big screen on real film, or at least something where you can be spared the digital distortion on optical media or streaming struggling to keep up with the lines in motion here.
And the ending, at last, is something that carries that bittersweet note that always hits me—old gods might be dead, human villages destroyed, but there is at least a chance for rebirth and a fresh start, earning the rather heavy things we see throughout. Miyazaki likes to ride with an environmental theme, but unlike others, it actually comes with some nuance and thought—shocking, I know. And in this case, it’s hardly the end-all of it—with it carrying into the message of understanding perhaps being the most important thing of all.
Princess Mononoke is a film that’s definitely carried Ghibli’s name around the world, even inspiring stage adaptations in the UK for instance. Enjoyable just as much for adults, it’s definitely something I’d still put on for the kids…well, maybe for ten and up, but still. It might be the heaviest of the studio’s output, but not long after, they’d make another outing where they truly outdid themselves simply on pure animation beauty, which I’ll get to next….
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