As a lifelong fan of Hayao Miyazaki, I had a hunch that his second “retirement” wouldn’t last very long. And thankfully, I was right. Hayao Miyazaki returns from “retirement” with a contemplative and visually breathtaking narrative in The Boy and the Heron, known to international audiences as “How Do You Live?” and named after the main inspiration for the film, the book 1937 How Do You Live? by Genzaburo Yoshino.
The Boy and the Heron weaves war, loss, and magical realism together in a way that only Miyazaki can. This latest offering from Studio Ghibli is as enigmatic as it is mesmerizing. It marks Miyazaki’s first film in a decade and a fitting continuation of his long career. At 82 years old, the anime legend crafts a story filled with his signature themes: nature, dreams, and the fragile resilience of youth.
Set against the backdrop of World War II, The Boy and the Heron centers on 12-year-old Mahito Maki (voiced by Soma Santoki in the Japanese dub and by Luca Padovan in the English dub), whose mother dies in a Tokyo hospital fire during the war. The film opens with this traumatic event, rendered in an impressionistic style—surreal, disorienting, and powerful in its emotional depth. The loss of Mahito’s mother haunts the character and the film, shaping Mahito’s journey as he and his father relocate to the countryside to start a new life with Natsuko, Mahito’s mother’s sister and now his stepmother. The landscape is serene but tinged with unease, symbolized by the giant gray heron that repeatedly intrudes upon Mahito’s new life.
Miyazaki’s films often blur the line between reality and fantasy, and The Boy and the Heron is no different. As Mahito struggles with grief and guilt over his mother’s death, the boundaries between his waking life and a dreamlike world begin to dissolve. He is drawn to a mysterious tower on the property, lured by the heron’s cryptic claims that his mother may not be dead after all. This marks the beginning of Mahito’s journey into a parallel realm, where he encounters fantastical creatures—parakeet soldiers, fiery girls, and the warawara, balloon-like beings that embody the souls of the preborn and the dead.
Much of the film’s magic lies in its quiet introspection, which reflects Miyazaki’s meditations on life, loss, and the impermanence of things. The film’s Japanese title, How Do You Live?, draws inspiration from Genzaburo Yoshino’s 1937 novel, a favorite of Miyazaki’s and a direct influence on the film. Much like the film, the novel revolves around a young boy grappling with grief and moral dilemmas. Early in the movie, Mahito finds a copy of the book among his late mother’s belongings, further tying the two narratives together.
While the plot meanders, filled with ethereal sequences that defy a straightforward narrative structure, The Boy and the Heron excels as a profoundly personal exploration of emotional healing; now in the twilight of his career, Miyazaki seems to be reflecting on his legacy, crafting a tale less concerned with providing clear answers and more focused on posing profound questions. In many ways, Mahito’s journey is not just about finding his mother but about coming to terms with the inevitability of loss and the transient nature of life. The titular heron (voiced by Masaki Suda in the Japanese dub and sober icon Robert Pattinson in the English dub), with its sharp teeth and unsettling presence, the Heron becomes both antagonist and guide—a manifestation of the tension between the desire to hold on and the necessity of letting go.
Visually, The Boy and the Heron is nothing short of stunning. Miyazaki’s attention to detail—whether in how light dapples a forest floor or how wind sweeps through tall grasses—immerses the viewer in the natural beauty of his world. The animation is hand-drawn, a testament to Miyazaki’s dedication to traditional techniques in an era dominated by CGI. Every frame is alive with motion and color, evoking the grandeur of the natural world even as Mahito’s internal struggles unfold.
However, the film’s true strength lies in its visual splendor and thematic complexity. At its core, The Boy and the Heron is a story about the human capacity for resilience. Mahito’s journey is one of acceptance—of his mother’s death, of his limitations, and of the inherent unpredictability of life. This echoes Miyazaki’s career arc, a man who has repeatedly declared his retirement, only to return to his craft, driven by an undeniable creative force.
While The Boy and the Heron may not have the universal appeal of Spirited Away or My Neighbor Totoro, it feels like Miyazaki’s most personal and profound film. It is less an adventure and more a meditation, less concerned with answering plot-driven questions and more focused on evoking an emotional response. For longtime fans of Studio Ghibli, like myself, the film is a poignant, if cryptic, farewell from one of cinema’s greatest animators.
In the film’s final moments, as Mahito grapples with the weight of his experiences, we are left with a question that Yoshino’s novel asks: How do you live? It’s a question that lingers long after the credits roll, and in true Miyazaki fashion, the answer is left up to us. And it left me in tears. I made the mistake, or perhaps lucky decision, to see the film about a week after my Grandfather passed. The film hit me much harder than any of Miyazaki’s previous works because of themes of death, grief, and guilt. But I left the theater feeling at a strange peace with the loss.
The Boy and the Heron is a work of art that defies easy categorization—enigmatic, visually ravishing, and deeply introspective. It is not just a film but an invitation to reflect on our lives, the people we have lost, and the world we have yet to understand fully. For this reason, I give The Boy and the Heron five out of five Sobees.
The Sobees Movie Night Score: 5 out of 5
The Boy and the Heron
Directed by Hayao Miyazaki
2 hours, 4 minutes | PG-13
Available to Stream on HBO Max
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