I have been sitting on my hodgepodge of thoughts on The Boy and the Heron for nearly a week now. How do I put everything I have to say about this exceedingly dense, sprawling, otherworldly film into one concise review? How do I do this film justice after the world at large waited a decade in anticipation for Hayao Miyazaki’s next masterpiece? I feel as though everyone and everything is weighing on me. So perhaps I should take a note from the film and just jump in.

There are many truisms about The Boy and the Heron that simply need not be debated. As such, it goes without saying that the animation is brilliant. In fact, there are no poorly animated Studio Ghibli films (Earwig and the Witch factually does not exist). But, even by such high standards, The Boy and the Heron is among their most visually dazzling works. One could argue it is their most gorgeously rendered to date, and I would not object. I may even agree. But how does one even begin to compare one breathtaking work of art to twenty others that dazzle in different styles? Also truer than the existence of life itself is the virtuosity of Joe Hisaishi’s score. Hisaishi is a living legend: one of the film world’s most cherished composers and potentially my all time favorite. And yet, he outdoes himself here. The score is omnipresent and widely dynamic, and yet never overdone. Tranquil piano melodies lull you into a quasi-meditative state; swelling orchestrations are enough to elicit tears on their own. There were moments where nothing particularly noteworthy would be happening on-screen, but as the music swelled, tears would spontaneously form in my eyes. And can you blame me? Think of the soft, floaty piano melodies. The expressive strings. The robust choral vocals. Everything exuded pure emotion. It just might be the best score of the year.

Further pulling you into Miyazki’s alluring world on the boundary between life and death is some truly immaculate sound work. It’s always unassuming, never in your face. Yet this film in IMAX has to be one of the most sonically atmospheric experiences I’ve ever had. The environment’s breath, the ebbing and flowing of human voice like a frail little bird  caught in the torrents, and every dramatic moment in the film are all matched with rich, layered swells of organic cacophony. Miyazaki on his worst day needs little help absorbing the viewer into his illustrious worlds, but The Boy and the Heron goes the extra mile on every front to make the experience as overwhelmingly beautiful as possible.

But let’s not beat around the bush any longer. What is The Boy and the Heron about? And does it succeed in its storytelling? The answer to the former question is quite challenging. The answer to the latter is not. I intentionally chose to structure my review this way because I wanted to mirror what it’s like watching this film. It’s an enigmatic puzzle box dressed up in the prettiest veneer you could ever imagine. As you peel back the layers of arresting animation, magnificent music, and scintillating sound, you reach a truly profound, philosophical, and emotionally resonant center. This film has no façade just for show. On the contrary, it’s one of the densest and purest streams of consciousness put to film in a long time. It is a pure burst of unadulterated creativity, a frantic cry of existentialism in all of its ugly, chaotic beauty.

The Boy and the Heron is for neither the faint of heart nor children of any age. Frankly, I’ve spoken with many adults at a complete loss. It often reads more like an experimental horror film than a coming-of-age drama, and that is by design. The film finds teenage boy Mahito still reeling from the somewhat mysterious death of his mother amidst the overarching destruction of World War II. Moving to the countryside with his father and new stepmother and hoping for some sense of solace, he only encounters unwelcoming classmates and a persistently aggressive gray heron. When his stepmother mysteriously vanishes on the family’s estate, the heron leads Mahito to a strange world between life and death in search of her.

There are many things in The Boy and the Heron that are difficult to explain with any degree of certainty. But the mystery of it all is this film’s beauty. And amidst the perfectly controlled chaos are little thematic morsels: morsels that tell a deeply personal story we can all earnestly relate to. Here, Miyazaki concerns himself with many explorations that I can only assume have been weighing on him lately. Miyazaki has talked about how he made this film as a final gift to his grandson, and what a stunningly poignant gift it is. With an urgency that could make the local emergency room shudder, Miyazki explores the rampant suffering and tragedy present in the world, our cherishing of life and our loved ones living and passed on, the significance of legacy, and our paradoxical relationship with death and oblivion. We fear it and avoid it, and, yet, in the most morbid of senses, the concept can offer solace. Life is unfair, unpredictable, and often cruel. Death is inevitable. So what is the point of it all? Of course, not even the most astute of philosophers can answer such things in an entire lifetime, so Miyazaki simply presents his thoughts for the audience to reflect on and relate to, for what else can he do?

One would be forgiven for labeling The Boy and the Heron “messy,” but aren’t all of our existential spirals the same way? But I object to this notion in general. To me, this film is perfectly calculated in its chaos. Existence in itself is an impervious machine of chaos. Very little makes sense, none of us know what is going on, and your worst nightmare or greatest dream could unfold at any moment. So one watching a film operating in this line of thinking should expect it to mirror it. The Boy and the Heron is often confounding, strange, and inexplicable, and yet Miyazaki never loses sight of his characters’ perspectives amongst the madness. Worlds fall apart, life is created and destroyed, everything we know is questioned, and there is BIRD POOP EVERYWHERE. And yet, Mahito’s arc feels central at all times. His grief, sadness, and fear drive the film’s narrative and messaging. The surreal images we’re constantly bombarded with are a manifestation of his own volatility. At any given point, it is hard to tell if The Boy and the Heron is careening toward catharsis or total annihilation, but Mahito’s journey at the center ensures the film is always a richly soulful and human experience as well as a philosophical one. I mean, seriously, leave it to Miyazaki to craft such an otherworldly and experimental narrative that is still so laser-focused on the human condition and the feelings of our central protagonist. As I write this review with the film’s score playing simultaneously in my headphones, I can’t help but be overcome with such strong emotion. Fear, uncertainty, pain, and grief melt away, leaving behind a pure adoration for the beautiful, stunning, enigmatic chaos of the universe. Everything is a mystery, nothing matters, and we’re all effing doomed, and isn’t it glorious? I tear up at the power of it all.

The Boy and the Heron is a stunning, once-in-a-lifetime tour de force. It is a mysterious, magical, haunting, and ultimately inspiring stream of consciousness through the darkest recesses of our minds and the potent sense of existential dread we all strive to suppress. To put such a philosophical, emotional, and soulful film into words is almost entirely futile, perhaps even a disservice to the audacious ambiguity of it all. But here I have tried to express how much this film matters, how much it matters to Miyazaki, to me, to us, to the world right now. The universe is a dumpster fire and we’re just living in it. Everything is absurd. Complete and utter terror is just one unassuming thought away. It’s all so horrendous and terrible and scary and hopeless. And yet, everything is here. We are here. I am here. You are here. Isn’t that a miracle? Isn’t life so precious? Aren’t we so fortunate? The universe is everything and more, and our time here is precious. So, when all is said and done, only one question really matters…

…How do you live?

10/10