This video is part of the Director
Project. A playlist where, every month, a bunch of video essayists get together to
analyze a particular director. This month is Hayao Miyazaki. If you like this video and want
to see more, make sure you check out the rest of the videos in this playlist, which is linked in
the description below. If you want to take part and make your own videos, just submit them to
Cult Popture on Twitter. Now let's get into it! If you're a fan of Hayao Miyazaki, or have at
least seen more than one of his films, you'll notice that he's a man who's very preoccupied
with the declining relationship between nature and humanity. In his more mature films like Nausicaä
of the Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke, our young adult heroines defend their
environmental surroundings from the threat of human civilization and technology. His steampunk
fantasy films like Howl's Moving Castle and Castle in the Cky advocate against the negative effects
that statism and military strength have on natural powers. Childhood classics like My Neighbour
Tortoro and Spirited Away incorporate elements of magical realism, where our child heroes are
exposed to the magical elements of their natural surroundings. In these environments the young
girls in these stories are able to navigate the complex feelings of grief, loneliness,
and coming of age. Miyazaki's reverence for the relationship between our spiritual
inner world and the external natural world falls into a tradition of thought called "The
Sublime". Developed during the Romantic period, the sublime is a concept that describes powerful
emotions that are evoked by the enormity of our surroundings - to an almost unsettling degree.
It's a sort of heightened awareness of the world around us that's often found in the divinity
of earth's great landscapes. Conceptualized by European thinkers like Edmund Burke, Lord Byron,
and Immanuel Kant, the sublime is the feeling that you get when you look at something so magnificent
that you're unable to grasp its magnitude leaving you feeling small and insignificant. Like lying
down in the snow and looking up at the Northern Lights, feeling the weight of its majesty crushing
down upon you. There's a sort of magic in these moments that can't be easily replicated. This
idea stood in opposition to the Enlightenment. A movement emerging around the same time which
placed an emphasis on reason and progress. For the Romanticists, the sublime can't be
explained through reason. It isn't nature itself that's sublime, but rather how we as humans
perceive it through our imagination. This is why Romantic artists and writers often imbued their
conceptions of the sublime with magic. As Brendan C. Walsh puts it, "magic and by extension creative
thought was performed by tapping into energies circulating beyond the material bounds of reality.
This type of magic was a means to unify humans with the natural, infusing the material world with
magical wonder." Now i'm sure you're thinking... hold up. You're just gonna go and apply
Romanticism, one of the most European philosophies, to the work of a Japanese filmmaker?
You're right. Romanticism, developed by Europeans, is incredibly Eurocentric. And as a result the
ideology can often be incredibly nationalistic, misogynistic, and individualistic. But what's
important to note is that when Romanticism as a distinct philosophy first entered Japan in the
late 19th and early 20th century, it was heavily influenced by its German counterpart. So very
nationalistic and even populist. But this would change in the postwar era, as scholars were
hesitant to engage in anything too politically ideological. Instead, as Japanese Romanticism grew
in the 20th century, it was reacting to the rapid industrialization and postwar disillusionment of
its cultural context. Yearning instead for the spiritual beauty of the natural realm. Miyazaki's
creative philosophy embodies these ideals. And his storytelling is far from Western. Subverting
conventional three-act structures, placing women - particularly young girls - as the central
heroes and approaching themes with a subtlety that Hollywood could frankly never achieve. And
although my earlier examples were more obvious, what if I told you that there's one Miyazaki
film in particular that conveys these ideas best? A film that's well liked, but often dismissed as
lighthearted and cute. Kiki's Delivery Service. At first glance, Kiki's Delivery Service is a sweet
coming-of-age movie about a young witch who moves to the big city and struggles to find her own
identity. But if you look a little deeper, you'll notice that there's a loud message bursting from
this quiet exterior. Much like the Romanticists, Miyazaki uses nature in his art to oppose the
cold rational and even destructive elements of technological innovation. In Kiki's Delivery
Service, Miyazaki uses Kiki as a mouthpiece to challenge technological determinism - which is the
idea that history is climbing towards some sort of moral and intellectual progress that can only be
achieved through the development of technology. Kiki, as a small town witch, is someone who
comes from an old world culture. Her dress, mannerisms, and even her broom are out of touch
with the fast-paced new world customs of the city. She's constantly at odds with technology. When she
arrives in town she flies directly into traffic clashing with the uniform path of the cars. She's
perplexed by Tombo's bike, which in all fairness is pretty perplexing. And her flight paths
are compromised by the presence of planes. Kiki is most at peace when she's surrounded
by nature. When she's flying in the open sky and when she's back home engulfed by trees. The
film even opens on a pan of a vast lake, stopping on Kiki lying in the grass, serenely looking up
at the big blue sky and listening to the radio. As the weatherman reports on clear skies for
the evening, the only other sound we hear is the grass rippling. What these opening shots
tell us is that Kiki is most comfortable here, most herself. When she loses confidence in her
journey and as a result her powers. Kiki becomes detached from her spiritual connection
with nature. She can no longer fly, nor can she talk to her cat Jiji. It's only when
she travels to a remote part of the forest to stay with her painter friend that she's able to conquer
her self-doubt and once again nurture her talents. "Take long walks, look at the scenery, doze
off at noon don't even think about flying. And then pretty soon you'll be flying again!" Having
grown up in Japan at the height of World War II, Miyazaki is a staunch pacifist, with a great
wariness about the destruction that technology can cause in the wrong hands. As we know, the
most formidable technological advancements are often born out of war. In Kiki, this concern
takes the form of a blimp, or dirigible, which looms over the town and mystifies civilians
with its grandiosity. For many in the city, this marvel of human invention seems sublime in
itself. But Miyazaki, through the eyes of Kiki, tells us that it's actually not so great.
Named "The Spirit of Freedom", the dirigible symbolizes a sort of jingoistic pride. But make
no mistake. Unlike the Romanticists before him, Miyazaki doesn't hate technology. If you
couldn't tell, he's obsessed with aviation. But as Walsh clarifies, "To Miyazaki, flight
is synonymous with imagination and creativity. A transcendence of personal limitations and a
testament to the wonders of the imagination." When Kiki flies it's an act of generosity and
purpose, whereas the blimp is a stagnant and intimidating symbol of bravado. What we see is
that Miyazaki is mostly interested in flight through the most minimal use of technology -
a distinctly Romantic idea. Kiki's powers are intrinsically linked to her broom to the extent
that it becomes an extension of her inner self. "You rely on what's inside of you don't you?
Uh-huh. We fly with our spirit." In the end, the blimp proves to be impotent - crashing into
the city as it's blown in by the strong sea winds. Ultimately it's Kiki, laughably small and fragile,
who's able to harness her natural powers and save the day. So why am I talking about Kiki? Why
am I connecting Miyazaki to this very lofty concept? Well with all the major shifts happening
in the world right now, the earth warming at an unprecedented rate a pandemic sweeping around the
world and confining us to our homes, Romanticism once again becomes both an escape and a philosophy
to live by. It's for this reason that we can find a lot of comfort in movies like Kiki's Delivery
Service. It's a welcome escape, but it also conveys the danger that humanity and technology
pose to our earthly home, without lecturing or preaching to us. Miyazaki's epic fantasy tales are
phenomenal and will go down as some of the best animated films of all time, but Kiki's Delivery
Service is a masterpiece in its own right. Its slow pace and simple story ask us to take a
step back from our daily ambitions and recognize that progress isn't linear. Kiki herself comes to
this realization, losing all that's important to her in the effort to prove that she's capable. "I
got so caught up in all the training and stuff. Maybe I have to find my own inspiration." With
this tale, Miyazaki tells us that by taking a moment to absorb the enormity of our surroundings
we'll realize that we're a product of nature. And as natural beings we're imperfect, undefinable,
and sublime. By humbling ourselves before the elements, we unlock our creative capacities,
and only then can we achieve greatness.
