Sometimes the sound of rain, a train gliding across water or a creature sitting beneath a tree is enough to recognize Hayao Miyazaki’s world. His films take us very far away, yet they often begin with simple sensations: wind on a face, an unfamiliar house, the fear of growing up. Perhaps that is why they are so moving. Behind the fantastic creatures and impossible landscapes, there is always something deeply human.
Drawing as a Doorway
Born in Tokyo in 1941, Miyazaki began his career in animation before co-founding Studio Ghibli in 1985 with Isao Takahata and producer Toshio Suzuki. What stands out in his work is the attention given to things that might seem secondary. Characters cook, tidy up, walk, and wait. Clothes move, grass bends in the wind, machines creak. These tiny gestures make even the most extraordinary worlds believable.
I especially love the way the setting is never treated as a mere background. In My Neighbor Totoro, the countryside almost becomes a character. In Howl’s Moving Castle, a ramshackle building seems to breathe. Drawing does more than represent the world: it gives it rhythm, a mood, and sometimes even a memory.
Childhood Without Naivety
Miyazaki’s young heroines face challenges that cannot be solved with a simple wave of a magic wand. Chihiro must learn to work, observe and remember her name. Kiki discovers that growing up also means doubt and losing confidence. These characters move forward without being invincible. Their courage often lies in a modest decision: helping someone, turning back, trusting despite fear.
His stories also refuse easy divisions between heroes and villains. A frightening creature can become endearing; an adversary may reveal unexpected vulnerability. This complexity never prevents wonder. On the contrary, it gives fantasy genuine depth, as though imagination helped us accept the contradictions of reality rather than forget them.
Nature and Machines
From Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind to Princess Mononoke, nature is never just a pretty landscape. It is powerful, wounded, sometimes dangerous, and always worthy of attention. Miyazaki also loves airplanes, engines and flying machines. This fascination with technology coexists with a deep distrust of war and destruction. His films do not try to erase the contradiction; they invite us to face it.
The Boy and the Heron, released in Japan in 2023, continues this conversation between grief, creation and inner worlds. To me, Miyazaki’s work reminds us of something essential: drawing is not only about inventing what does not exist. It is also about learning to look more closely at what surrounds us. And sometimes, for a few moments, recovering our childhood capacity for wonder.
