The Boy, the Heron, and the Malice We Bring With Us

I lament the fact that I was only introduced to Studio Ghibli after twenty-three years of life.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar, Ghibli is a Japanese animation studio founded in the mid-eighties and responsible for such breathtaking and thought-provoking films as My Neighbour Totoro and Spirited Away. To my knowledge, the studio has a large and loyal following on both sides of the globe, and its films continue to resonate in an age of fast-paced 3D animated films and live-action remakes no one asked for. (Curbing tangent here).

I could write a whole post—no, an entire series of posts—on the few Ghibli films I've seen so far and how the directors draw their art draw straight from the magical storytelling well we all know by taste but can't always describe. Maybe one day, I will write that series. Maybe I'm starting right now, with Miyazaki's most recent and reportedly final film, The Boy and the Heron.

Spoilers ahead.

The Boy and the Heron follows a young boy named Mahito who moves to his stepmother's estate after the wartime death of his mother. The estate teems with lore about Mahito's long-lost uncle, who supposedly went mad before disappearing years prior. This doesn't interest Mahito much. He is far too busy mourning his mother, resenting his father's remarriage, and beating himself over the head with a rock to get out of school. When a talking heron lures him into a magical tower with a promise to reunite him with his mother, Mahito charges into a fantasy realm that is barely holding together. There, he is given a choice: will he be the one to keep that world going, or will he let it self-destruct and return to his painful reality?

Critiquing escapism is hardly a new facet of portal fantasy. From the Chronicles of Narnia to Alice in Wonderland to Peter and Wendy, we've come to expect the token implication against avoiding our natural lives and callings in fantasy worlds, so much so that we've almost stopped hearing it. Or chosen to, anyway. For instance, the reason I weep at the end of every Narnia movie is not an overflow of appreciation for the story, but an overflow of grief for the characters who must now pick up boring, post-Narnia lives. I know they must: it is part of Aslan's plan that they come to know Him in the real world. But the fact remains that the "embrace real life" message isn't always the most palatable when sparkly fantasy worlds are the sacrifice.

So what makes The Boy and the Heron unique? What makes its warning against escapism land differently?

One of my most haunting memories of the film is the image of Mahito's great-uncle—an old man hunched over a tower of children's blocks, trying desperately to hold the fantasy world together by stacking prisms upon spheres upon pyramids, holding his breath every time the whole thing shudders. He looks like he's spent centuries doing it, and in the film's final moments, this ancient creature entreats his nephew to take on the work in his place:

"These stones here have not been stained with malice. I had to travel the far reaches of time and space in order to find them. There are 13 stones in all. You just need to stack them once every three days. You can build your own tower. A kingdom that is free from malice. Create a world of bounty, peace and beauty."

Mahito replies, pointing at his self-inflicted head wound:

"I gave myself this scar on my head. It's a sign of my malice. That's why I won't touch those stones." (The Boy and the Heron, 2023)

The film culminates with Mahito racing for the exit while the fantasy realm literally implodes around him. An entire cosmos, decades of worldbuilding and care, obliterated in moments. I'll admit, when the credits rolled, my first thought was, That's it? My friend and I spent a solid few minutes scrolling our phones for an explanation of what we'd just seen.

In true Ghibli fashion, the answers are not spelled out in neon (although some can be found on Reddit). The answers hide in the gaps, the silences, and the weight of unresolution that follows you out the door after movie night. I've come to appreciate one of the deep truths I've found in this story—a truth that I feel sets it apart from other similar premises. Because while some stories say somewhat uncompellingly, "See, children, real life has so much more to offer than any fantasy," The Boy and the Heron takes a more ruthlessly honest approach: "Try if you want, but there's no escaping the pain of reality. Wherever you find people playing god, you'll find pain there too."

Lots of portal fantasies ask young characters to go back to their lives and face their problems. But how many ask those characters to destroy the fantasy world and everything in it on their way out? How many challenge the very idea of fantasy as a space for humans to play at deity, to see if we could build a better world than the one we have—or worse, to correct what we may perceive as God's mistakes?

Mahito was a bitter little boy who hated his life. Perfect candidate for permanent emigration to a world of talking herons and block-stacking immortal ancestors. But like many Ghibli children, he is also wise beyond his years, wise enough to recognize that the malice he carries with him—the ingrained selfishness of sin—will destroy the world even if he tries to save it. Not even his fantasy is pure, because he isn't. And that is why he returns to reality, because messy as it is, painful as it is, goodness can only coexist with truth. And given the choice between a true, complicated world and a false, simple one, he chooses the reality that promises more pain while also promising deeper meaning, relationship, and love.

In short, Mahito chooses the world God made. Are we willing to do that?

Once upon a time, my personal struggles may have caused me to take increasing refuge in storytelling. Looking back, I can identify some of my own Mahito-like tendencies. Things I hated about myself and the reality God had given me, things I wished were different. Things I could make reality, in my own world. Maybe sometimes, in a backwards way, writing became my rebellious escape.

Separated from that version of myself by a few years now, I don't know if this perspective is even accurate or fair. Maybe I just loved storytelling. Maybe it truly was a pure pursuit. But regardless, I do know that I brought my twisted-up heart into every world I built. I still do. I am human. I may not have a scar like Mahito's to remind me, but I've read enough Psalms and Romans to know that I am no exception to the universal rule of mankind: "None is righteous, no, not one." (Romans 3:10)

What is my point? Well, it's obviously not that writing fantasy is bad (look at what Miyazaki accomplished). But as creatives of all kinds, we must examine our hearts for the motives behind our worlds. To create is a beautiful thing, a reflection of our God's creative heart, but if, deep-down, we are creating out of discontent or bitterness or a desire to correct what we perceive as a cosmic mistake... are we any better than old men stacking blocks, fighting to build something that we doomed the moment we touched it?

I believe Mahito could have built a beautiful world, not a perfect one. But ultimately, his story could only have a happy ending once he aligned himself with the Great Story, the true path that an Author greater than Mahito had already arranged for his life. In the same way, we can't hope to create anything lasting or worthwhile if we aren't living in alignment with our Creator's design for us. Only in Christ, covered by His blood and renewed day by day, can we tap into the kind of pure creativity and stewardship that Mahito knew he didn't have. Only in Christ, our sin cancelled out by His perfection, can our creations become beautiful celebrations of—not rebellions against—God's glorious plan.

I don't know if this will resonate with anyone. I honestly just started writing and let the words take me where they would. But if anyone out there is struggling to stack blocks, fighting the feeling that everything is about to crumble despite your best efforts, don't fight for a fantasy that can never be any more perfect than you are. Instead, turn to the Author whose mastery far exceeds ours. Watch Him illuminate the masterpiece that is your messy, difficult, beautiful story. Who knows? What you find in your true story might just inspire you to create more deeply, joyfully, and meaningfully than ever before.