Microcosms: A celebration of Ghibli Living
Studio Ghibli is not just a household name. It is a universal fixture for many, a staple for Asian families, and has a persistent hold on audiences despite the drastically changing times. When I first pitched this piece in a meeting, I was running on the vague fumes of how Studio Ghibli’s reception has faltered very little since its inception. I wanted to be meticulous about illuminating those traits succinctly and with respect. My mind alighted at an early memory of watching My Neighbour Totoro (1988).
This was back in Hong Kong, when my family lived in the same apartment block as my grandparents. I remembered being entranced by the idea of a house with old bones that came alive with its occupants, with my sister and I squabbling over the accuracy of ourselves portrayed in the set of sisters on screen. (Me, smug-faced at resembling the elder voice of reason, and my sister begrudgingly accepting her role as the impatient younger one.) Entranced by Satsuki and Mei, I recalled my own joys at that age - fumbling around in parks, finding amusements with very little apart from each other, the brimming sense of excitement that came with inhabiting new and foreign places.
At the time drafting this, I suddenly burst into tears. I still struggle to find the words to explain how this recollection made me feel.. My behaviour, however, does evoke a string of common questions - questions that many have posed when approaching Studio Ghibli. Why do these films radiate so much comfort? How did the Ghibli collection earn its well-worn association as cathartic pieces?
Simply put, the films draw on collective projections of life as we know it. They are marked by proximity, yet are effective because the tidbits of joy and beauty depicted on-screen are still somehow within reach of our own realities. Due to the feelings these films inspire, I want to focus on those that notably reflect the interfaces of our daily lives. Miyazaki’s films are, for salient reasons, renowned for exploring the undercurrent of eco-activism and gruelling post-war philosophies. Ecology and the structures embedded into upholding the natural order are often intrinsic elements of the films, and the terrains that he draws are essential to the characters who occupy them.
However, I wish to examine the soft underbelly of Miyazaki Hayao’s works - The passion projects of teenhood, the domestic proclivities of those living, and eating by lush land or sea. The violence and action are all the more powerful thanks to Miyazaki's skillful use of quietude threaded in between, these films and moments serving Miyazaki’s message in a different, yet equally inspired, and crucial way.
Firstly, ‘Slice of Life’ is a genre of Japanese film and manga that is characterised by its lighthearted, fluffy depictions of everyday living. The genre focuses on subtle romance, coming of age tales, and the nostalgia of childhood - both imagined and experienced. The etymology of the term has roots in literature as a narrative technique for progression, before becoming grouped in association with naturalism in Japanese animation. ‘Slice of Life’ starkly contrasts with Japan’s most prolific genre of ‘Shonen’ anime, as this features adventure, fight sequences, and strength/physique enhancing elements (Eisenbeis 2014). It is a marked divergence from the thrall of action, with its own unique means of managing to capture the hearts of the public.
These genres are worth noting as they underpin the quiet defiance of Studio Ghibli’s existence. Hayao Miyazaki famously shuns use of CGI, and he draws 70% of the panels himself. For instance, 80,000 out of 140,000 frames for Princess Mononoke (1997) were personally drawn by Miyazaki (Chute 1998). His handiwork is a testament of perseverance in the face of the ever-changing appetite and demand for japanese animation. Even as anime titans such as Boku No Hero Academia (My Hero Academia) and Kimetsu No Yaiba (Demon Slayer) have broached the western market with staggering enthusiasm, it is this sincere attention to detail that causes Studio Ghibli remains a beloved beacon of Japanese animation.
The effectiveness of Miyazaki’s worldbuilding is what captures the public’s imagination. His detail and commitment to the natural world takes precedence even amongst the more fantastical of his repertoire, evidenced in The Cat Returns and My Neighbour Totoro. Both contain animals with paranormal sentience, interlocking friendships, and magic that takes place in the dead of night. The moments that are ascribed to magic, however, often are pared down by the heightened realities of normal life. The moment before Haru enters the Cat Baron’s domain in The Cat Returns (2002), the town centre is swathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Satsuki and Totoro’s first encounter takes place at a bus stop. Neither of these experiences are heralded as fantastical in life - yet Miyazaki manages to weave the extraordinary in the ordinary. These inflections are quiet evocations of how at the centrepiece of every tale, there is magic at our own fingertips.
Oftentimes, family is splintered in these narratives. Navigating grief in the tentativity of adolescence is a common trait that Miyazaki employs to further flesh out the identities of his respective characters. In From Up on Poppy Hill (2011), protagonist Umi’s only tether to her deceased father is the naval flag she raises daily at dawn. It signals: ‘I pray for safe voyage’. The sense of belonging that follows is one of rehabilitation, and Umi’s budding interest in classmate Shun strengthens through the revelation that their fathers had both lost their lives at sea together.
Moreover, the sisters from Totoro remain under their father’s care while their mother recovers in the hospital from nameless sickness. The extent of her ailing health is never fully revealed to the audience, and becomes an interlocking point of conflict for both the father, armed with the extensive knowledge of what is keeping his wife at bay, and for the children, who cannot grasp the magnitude of sickness without their own raw emotions. Totoro’s role in the movie as guardian of the forest is eclipsed by his much more pivotal role as guardian of the two girls. Even as Satsuki and Mei’s mother is well enough to rejoin them, Totoro and his crew of spritely friends continue to watch over their livelihood and the rest of their days in the forest.
These parallels serve a focal point: rehabilitating a sense of new life through found or chosen family. In many ways, founded intimacies emerge to fill that void. Intuitively, Studio Ghibli endeavours to present its works as a force of comfort, made whole again only through the fissures of grief.
Another component of comfort lies in the representation of food. The simplicity of the meals, the ribbons of steam that unfurl upwards from bowls of soup, always elicit a poignant reaction of relief, and muted joy. The animation harkens back to my own childhood (perhaps the only period of my life when I ate, unprohibited) and the very own home cooked meals of my younger years (yellowy fried rice with char siu, hor fun noodles drenched in beef brisket and broth, and chinese soup. Always soup!)
None of Hayao’s films accomplish this feat better than Ponyo (2008). The infamous ramen scene between Ponyo and Sosuke pans out for that specific purpose. Ponyo, who at that point had assumed her human form experiences the delights of simple consumption: gathering around a table, sharing an experience that intimately engages one with another. The ramen, which initially started as a deflection to alleviate the anxieties of two children, becomes the conduit for closeness, and later, for comfort. The same can be inferred from the climatic escape of the younger sister, Mei, in My Neighbour Totoro. In her attempts to reach her mother, she disappears with a bundle of corn — the closest thing to comfort that she could offer to an ailing parent. The simplicity of this act situates food as a vessel for comfort. Mei’s childlike understanding does not hinder her from trying to assuage her mother’s health (and her own insecurities) through the universal language of nourishment.. These scenes speak to our yesteryears - the times when we are transported back through a scent, a touch, a taste.
Studio Ghibli espouses that very delicate state of existence. The characters are continuously identifiable because they, like us, are fighting against fatigue and loss. Much like our very own lives, the trajectory of these films move between periods of inactivity to illuminate the small cracks of our shared experiences. The collective insignificance of life lived without affect and glamour develops in tandem with the plot — not in service of it.
“Sometimes when people create something, and they put their heart into it, their creation comes alive, with its own soul.” Through the mouthpiece of the Cat Baron, Hayao is opening up the very crevices of his own soul — for our enjoyment. The sheer beauty of creating, putting pen to paper and seeing the fruits of that labour come to life is so intrinsic to our own stories and our own lives. It is one of the most organic pleasures we can glean from living in this muddled world.
Miyazaki drives the point home that there will always be beauty in the lining of our shared experiences, in the mundane. Reaffirming the little things can cultivate a sense of gratitude for the varying shades of life we allow ourselves to experience. While these of course do not detract from the weight of our respective burdens; they offer a respite of a different kind. Miyazaki’s animation stresses that in the fringes of unrest there is healing. In one of my poems, I write that bits of us have to give way, sieve, and tumble - even compromise the way we take form in order to adapt and change.
The films seem to understand how we can let the days blur indistinguishably, how it is often easier to cry and wade in one’s feelings. Yet the imagery continues to inspire a different response altogether. We know that the interfaces of our daily lives are battered with turmoils both oppressive and combatant. We also know that there is fierce joy that comes with choosing to revel in the quietude of life when we can, and that those moments, sparing and in-between, are often the sweetest.