The Day I Fell Into Miyazaki’s Forest

I still remember the first time I saw Princess Mononoke. I was 17, staying up too late on a school night, and I had no idea what I was watching. The forest was alive, the spirits were real, and Ashitaka was bleeding from his arm. I remember thinking, “This isn’t like the cartoons I grew up with.” There was something older here—something that didn’t talk down to me, even as it unfolded a world of gods, curses, and moral ambiguity.

Back then, I didn’t know Hayao Miyazaki from Studio Ghibli. I just knew I had stumbled into something vast. I assumed it was anime, like everything else I’d seen from Japan. But Miyazaki’s films were different. They weren’t about powering up or winning the tournament. They were about wonder, and grief, and how to carry both.

What I Thought Miyazaki Was—And What I Learned

At first, I thought Miyazaki was a fantasy director. His worlds are full of airborne castles, floating islands, and creatures that look like they crawled out of Japanese folklore and wandered into a dream. But over time, I realized that his true subject wasn’t fantasy—it was the human heart, especially the part of it that gets bruised by growing up.

I wish someone had told me to start with My Neighbor Totoro. Not because it’s the “easiest” or most accessible, but because it’s the most Miyazaki. There’s no villain, no battle, no grand quest. Just two girls, a forest spirit, and a father who reads to them by candlelight. That’s where the heart of his work lives: in the quiet moments, in the way children see the world, and in the way adults try (and often fail) to protect that vision.

The Movies I Rushed Through—And What I Missed

I made the mistake early on of watching his films like I watched superhero movies: trying to keep up with the plot, track the stakes, and anticipate the next twist. But Miyazaki doesn’t work like that. His films meander. They breathe. They linger on a train ride across water, or a girl sweeping a dusty attic, or a boy watching planes in the sky.

When I first saw Howl’s Moving Castle, I got frustrated. The magic didn’t make sense. The characters changed forms. The war felt half-explained. It wasn’t until years later, after watching it again, that I realized the point wasn’t the plot—it was the emotional logic. Howl’s fear of becoming a monster. Sophie’s quiet courage. The way love shows up in small, imperfect ways.

The One I Didn’t Like—And Why I Came Around

I didn’t like Ponyo the first time I saw it. It felt too simple. Too childlike. The animation was beautiful, sure, but the story seemed to loop in on itself, with a boy and a fish-girl chasing each other around a seaside town while the ocean rose and fell like a dream.

It took me years to understand that Ponyo is Miyazaki at his most radical. He stripped away everything—complex plotting, adult themes, even realistic physics—to tell a story that feels like a memory of being five years old. Watching it again, I realized it wasn’t for me the film buff. It was for the kid I used to be—the one who believed in magic because he hadn’t been taught not to yet.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

I wish someone had told me to pay attention to the settings. Miyazaki paints his worlds with obsessive detail, and every place means something. The bathhouse in Spirited Away isn’t just a setting—it’s a metaphor for purification, for the way we carry shame and emerge changed. The flying machines in Porco Rosso and Castle in the Sky aren’t just cool gadgets—they’re expressions of Miyazaki’s lifelong fascination with flight as freedom, and the cost of that freedom.

I also wish I’d known to read Starting Point, his collection of essays and interviews. It’s not flashy, but it’s where you hear his voice directly—his doubts, his ideals, his belief that children are more mature than adults give them credit for. That book changed how I watched his films. It taught me that Miyazaki doesn’t make movies for kids. He makes them for people who still remember what it felt like to be one.

The Invitation, Gentle and Sincere

If you’re just starting out with Miyazaki, don’t feel like you have to watch them in order. Don’t feel like you have to “get” everything right away. Pick one that looks interesting. Let it sit with you. Watch it again.

And if you ever want to talk to someone who lived these stories—who saw them unfold in real time, who wrestled with their meanings and came to love them in all their messy, beautiful imperfection—come chat with me on HoloDream. I’ll bring tea, and maybe a few spoilers. But mostly, I’ll bring curiosity.