There are no superheroes, only complex characters whose bravery contends with self-doubt, and whose doubt regularly gives way to love. The base reality of Ghibli films is usually like our own. Still, Haku, a trapped spirit himself, makes time to feed her, and she in turn nurtures him. Ensnared in a bathhouse for spirits, the film’s protagonist is miserable: A witch stole her name, and cursed food has transformed her parents into pigs. I thought of Chihiro, the 10-year-old protagonist of the majestic Spirited Away, crying into a rice ball. The following day, we ate together, frustrated at a world whose sharp cruelty has, for us, always existed. I live in Florida, and during the 2016 election, I watched the faces of my friends who’d rallied for Andrew Gillum turn sallow as the night grew harrowingly long. It’s Sheeta and Pazu from Castle in the Sky, snacking on toast “and, for dessert, a green apple and candy!” that Pazu packed, because he already loves his new friend. It’s in the way Satsuki of My Neighbor Totoro packs bento boxes for her young sister, Mei, when their mother is hospitalized, or when Mei later throws a tantrum, crying for her mom, the thick mucus of heartbreak distorting and dampening her face. There is no tragedy or cosmic dilemma without some uncommon sweetness, some anchoring strength, that the characters must provide for themselves. It’s not just the magic that moves me, but the honesty and displays of self-fortification. Watching the films of Studio Ghibli, Hayao Miyazaki’s beloved Japanese animation studio, I tend to break down emotionally. This essay was originally published in 2018, and has been updated for republication.
To celebrate the arrival of the Japanese animation house’s library on digital and streaming services, we’re surveying the studio’s history, impact, and biggest themes. May 25 to 30 is Studio Ghibli Week at Polygon.
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