Where does one even begin when it comes to the subject of the cinema of Hayao Miyazaki? To call him a groundbreaking filmmaker is a wild understatement since what he has achieved throughout his career is beyond revolutionary. He and his colleague Isao Takahata (as co-founders of Studio Ghibli, which has become synonymous with quality filmmaking) essentially elevated anime from being a culturally specific sub-genre of animation and turned it into one of the most acclaimed, profitable and popular forms of storytelling that has been appreciated by a global audience. It has been quite a while since Miyazaki directed a film, and many imagined that The Wind Rises, which is about to celebrate its tenth anniversary, was the final film that the director would make, especially since he made it clear that he was slowly going to step away from directing to make space for the younger generation. Yet, it seems like he is the kind of artist who needs to be perpetually creating something, since he gradually cobbled together yet another film, spending the past few years putting together The Boy and the Heron (Japanese: 君たちはどう生きるか), which proves to be one of his most moving and deeply ambitious films to date. The film tells the story of a young boy navigating the loss of his mother, who was a casualty of the Pacific War after the hospital in which she was being treated was set on fire. Very soon, our protagonist finds himself plunged into a fantasy world after a particularly troublesome heron starts to terrorize him, insisting that his mother is awaiting his rescue. Much like everything that Miyazaki has done, The Boy and the Heron is driven by a sense of complex human emotions that use broad stories as allegories for deeper themes, many of the ideas embedded in this film being amongst the director’s strongest and most sincere. Complex, enthralling and deeply captivating in the way that we have grown to appreciate, the film is an astonishing achievement, and yet another masterful effort from arguably the greatest living animator, and one of the most important artists of any generation.

Early on in its development, there were reports that Miyazaki was adapting the novel How Do You Live? by Genzaburō Yoshino (the title in the original language directly references the book, enough to indicate its importance in the construction of this otherwise original, bespoke narrative), but over time it was revealed that it was an original story in which this incredible novel was only a plot device, appearing in a pivotal moment that serves as the turning point for the plot, but otherwise only being loosely inspired by the principles embedded at the heart of that story. The aspect that Miyazaki seemed to be most inspired by in that classical text is the idea of looking at childhood as not only a journey towards maturity, but an adventure in which we encounter many different challenges, and through the process of overcoming these obstacles, we grow and become stronger. This is a common principle in many stories that centre on characters growing up, so Miyazaki had to ensure that his version was not only different to the many we have seen before but also unique within his oeuvre since he has made his fair share of coming-of-age stories in the past, many of them being amongst his finest work. Complex and compelling, we follow the character of Mahito, who is at that age where he awkwardly stands in between childhood and adolescence – he’s old enough to understand that life is not always as pleasant as it seems, but still possesses that sense of youthful wonder that makes the world seem like a far more interesting, imaginative place. Throughout the story, we watch him grow, becoming more aware of reality, while also shedding his naive perceptions as he comes to terms with the fact that life is not easy and that it consists of many challenges, but rather than buckling under the weight of these obstacles, they become formative moments important to our later development, something that is a recurring theme throughout the director’s work.

Miyazaki’s films may be sprawling and touch on several different genres, but there are a small group of themes that he is usually drawn to explore, developing these ideas with precision and allowing his stories to take the shape of fully-formed, complex examinations of various aspects of the human condition, a subject to which he feels a genuine appreciation and fondness, even in his most fantastical, abstract works. In the case of The Boy and the Heron, his intentions are clear – he uses this story of a boy going on a magical journey into a distant world (which is an alternate version of the past) as the foundation for an exploration of family history. Mahito is a young boy who is saddled with the grief of knowing that his family has been broken and that even with the best efforts of his new stepmother, it will never quite be the same as it was before, which causes him to fall into a deep depression. These ideas are beautifully conveyed in the film, which is a quiet and resilient story about identity and the challenges that come with realizing that you are on a specific kind of journey, his being both physical and emotional as he leaps into the past and attempts to understand the roots of his family, which is the primary foundation of the film, and the most engaging element. One of the most important motifs in How Do You Live? is a story where the protagonist (who is roughly the same age as Mahito) is told a story by his uncle, who supports the idea that every person is a single droplet in an ever-flowing river that is existence, and while this is only marginally related to the plot of the film, it is clear that what Miyazaki was doing here was conveying the idea that each one of us is an individual part of a wider story, a collective narrative that has existed for millennia, which existed for centuries before we were born and will carry on long after we have left. It relates to the concept of sonder, the realization that every person we pass in our daily lives has a rich, fully-formed story of their own. Miyazaki ties these ideas together and adds fantastical elements that make it an even more evocative, complex experience that is deeply moving and profoundly endearing, which is exactly what we have come to expect from his exceptionally high calibre of work over the decades.

One of the universal truths of contemporary art is that a Miyazaki film without genuine, heartfelt emotions simply does not exist. Not only is he a masterful visual stylist, but every aspect of his cinematic pursuits is supported with the most genuine of emotions. The Boy and the Heron has an even bigger task in this regard since there is the idea that this may be the last film Miyazaki makes, since his statements suggest that this film exists at the tail-end of a career that has allowed him artistic liberty and the freedom to tell the stories that interested him, with the intention with this film being to say a gentle goodbye to the people he cares about the most. This suddenly makes the familial aspect of the film all the more poignant, since this is a story about the director’s childhood in some way, at least in terms of how he infuses the protagonist with many of the same questions and quandaries he had at that age, particularly what it was like to grow up during the post-war period, where Japan had to undergo the challenge of not only recovering from a devastating war but also coming to terms with the fact that their way of life was gradually changing. The winds of time continued to breeze through the lives of every person, and for someone like Miyazaki, it brought on a considerable change, which is reflected in this heartfelt, compelling story about a boy who is taken to a fantasy world populated by creatures, some of them his allies, others adversaries, but all teaching him about the fickle nature of existence. The Boy and the Heron is one of the director’s most mature films in terms of the themes being discussed – there is a scene where Mahito encounters a noble pelican that is one of the most harrowing in the director’s oeuvre, solely because of the sentiments shared between this boy and a dying bird, the reflections showing a remarkable depth that finds beauty in the sadness. It’s a melancholic film about the challenges of growing up, and Miyazaki’s sharp, forthright direction is always appreciated, especially with a subject that could have become heavy-handed had it been given to someone without his wisdom and artistic integrity, two qualities on which Miyazaki has always prided himself.

There isn’t any clear indication around whether The Boy and the Heron are intended to be Miyazaki’s final film – he has previously expressed the idea that this film is his parting letter to his beloved grandchildren, a final film for them to cherish, secure in the knowledge that they are loved, whereas there are conflicting reports that he is eager to keep working. However, with the pace at which his films are produced, it may be possible that this is the final feature-length effort we receive from the esteemed director, and if it does end up being his swan song, it does feel like a logical conclusion to one of the greatest careers in the history of cinema. It is a beautifully made film, with both the character design and landscapes explored by the protagonist being amongst the most stunning in the director’s career – and the fact that there are filmmakers who are still willing to put in the work of hand-drawn animation, in an industry where technology has made animation almost effortlessly easy to produce. The effort that went into this film is not ignored, and we find ourselves drawn into this world with such ease, Miyazaki leading us through his vision and guiding our journey alongside these characters, his world-building being as impeccable as ever (I truly believe that the mythology that exists throughout his films is amongst the greatest in literary history), which allows the viewer to easily become lost in the world he has built for us. It’s complex and beautiful, human and enchanting – and it only consolidates the fact that Miyazaki is a true artist, someone whose entire existence has been around telling stories that inspire him, as well as entertain his audiences. Deeply personal in terms of the ideas that informed it, as well as being profoundly emotional in the quiet moments in between magnificent spectacle, The Boy and the Heron is an incredible piece of cinema, and yet another peak for a director that has once again proven himself to be at the very top of his craft, and even if this turns out to be his final film, it carries a profound weight that is difficult to ignore, and impossible to see as anything more than daring, complex human artistry.