When Hayao Miyazaki released The Wind Rises, he announced his retirement – for the third time. A decade on and seemingly nowhere near finished, The Boy and the Heron proves that he still has a story to tell.
Set during WWII, the film follows a young boy named Mahito, whose mother dies in a hospital fire. The opening scene marks a surprising departure from the Miyazaki we’ve come to expect, mixing slow motion with POV shots – both uncharacteristic of the iconic animator. From then on, he returns to his normal form, blending beautifully crafted backgrounds (akin to My Neighbour Totoro) with creatures both cute and alarmingly creepy – including the titular heron.
Mahito and his widowed father move in with his aunt – who’s pregnant with his new half-sibling – to a large country estate. The pesky heron, who also inhabits the grounds, visits Mahito in a vision, claiming his mother is still alive before luring him, his aunt and one of the maids to an abandoned tower.
Like the bathhouse in Spirited Away, the crumbling column is not what it seems. Usually barricaded by old stones, the ominous tower is now invitingly open, occupied by the heron – or rather, a small man trapped in a bird’s body. In order to find the ‘truth’, Mahito must travel to the world beneath his and search for it himself – and so he sinks through the tower floor and sets off on an adventure.
Mahito learns the inner workings of this strange new universe, filled with quirky characters and – in true Ghibli fashion – weird little guys called warawara. There, he realises the world is so much larger than himself; it’s a fragile place which can easily fall off-balance, if power’s put into the wrong hands. There’s a man – or a god, we’re not sure which – who controls this universe, but he’s old and in search of a successor. This plot point feels especially symbolic, as Miyazaki must soon pass his own torch.
The Boy and the Heron explores recurrent themes of coming-of-age, family, fragility, and pacifism — but perhaps its largest lesson is in love. While mourning the loss of his mother, Mahito’s sadness transforms into bitterness and resentment; it’s only by ensuring his aunt’s safe return that he can overcome this grief and open his heart.
Though its protagonist is a young man – a rarity for Miyazaki – the true heroes in this story are women. From Mahito’s mother Hisako, a hospital worker who died saving others, to Himi, a young girl with mystical powers, each is strong and self-assured in her own right, furthering Miyazaki’s commitment to portraying women and girls as infinitely multifaceted.
The Boy and the Heron suffers only because it’s forced to compete with its predecessors. It lacks Spirited Away’s inventiveness and emotional scope, Howl’s Moving Castle’s grandiose scenery, and My Neighbor Totoro’s whimsicality. Yet the film does bring something new to the table – namely, its maturity, being one of Ghibli’s more solemn stories.
A balance of novel and nostalgic, The Boy and the Heron manages to feel fresh while preserving a familiar style, score, and sentiment. While it’s a far cry from Miyazaki’s best work, it’s a solid addition to the Ghibli Cinematic Universe and a fitting send-off from one of the world’s most masterful storytellers – if it is indeed his final farewell.
