Studio Ghibli's 'The Boy and the Heron'

A journey into nostalgic reverie

Wednesday, 8 pm in Prague; I found myself at Kino Světozor for a screening of The Boy and the Heron, a cinema I’m fond of because of its nostalgic atmosphere (My father says it hasn’t changed since the Velvet Revolution). I sat, upright, in my wooden seat for two hours and four minutes; consumed by a feeling I could only describe as a profound grief and jubilation for a time and place I never experienced. 

Since its founding in 1985 Studio Ghibli, under Hayo Miyazaki’s direction, has crafted magical animated worlds capturing the hearts of children and adults alike. The allure of Ghibli lies in the sense of subliminal nostalgia evoked by the traditional hand-drawn animation technique known as “cel-animation,” in lieu of the modern, computer-generated animation produced by the likes of Pixar or Illumination. Or perhaps it’s the lush countryside, devoid of technology, appealing to the little child within us which could blissfully dart through fields like the characters in Howl's Moving Castle or My Neighbor Totoro. There is a traditional piano soundtrack to score Miyazaki’s movies, which complements their timelessness and doesn’t take attention away from the breathtaking scenes.

The Boy and the Heron follows the 12-year-old Mahito, who, following his mother's death, finds it difficult to adjust to his new life in a small town, having moved from Tokyo. Mahito encounters a talking Heron who reveals a startling truth — his mother is alive. Led to an abandoned tower at the edge of the estate, the movie takes a fantastical turn transporting Mahito to a timeless underworld teeming with malevolent parakeets, the adorable Warawara, and infinite landscapes. The Boy and the Heron is a signature Miyazaki movie: vibrant, beautiful, capricious, and melancholic. Though we can set the movie somewhere in the 1940s, the era itself isn’t imperative, it’s the general feeling of nostalgia. The movie resonates with the soul, transcending the confines of time, place, or generation. It distils the spirit of childhood itself. Equally, the movie is about saying goodbye; time is an immutable force, one which is impossible to subdue or resist. The movie thus also mourns childhood; though we may grasp, claw, and tear at it, its passing is inevitable and we must bear the brunt of the future.

The reason I opened with my personal viewing experience of the film is intentional; it mirrors the immersive nostalgic nature of a Studio Ghibli movie. In an era of AI, political uncertainty, and rapid technological change our generation seeks refuge in a more comfortable past, even if one not directly lived. This desire resonates with the resurgence of vinyl records, analogue photography, and vintage fashion — a sentiment akin to the timeless appeal of a Studio Ghibli movie. In the documentary The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness, Miyazaki bears his soul, revealing “[he’s] a man of the 20th century, [he doesn’t] want to deal with the 21st.” Well, sir, I’m a girl of the 21st century, and I don’t want to deal with it either, so I turn to your films to find solace.

The Boy and the Heron became the first original anime in the North American box office to top the chart, the first to earn Miyazaki a Golden Globe, and has been nominated for an Academy Award. While rumoured to be Hayo Miyazaki’s last film (as were the past 3), I see a bright future and a growing fanbase for the studio which lends a shoulder to the anxious heads of our generation.

Illustration by Isabelle Holloway