Hayao Miyazaki, Studio Ghibli, and the ‘Environmental Message’
Director Hayao Miyazaki (source: Flickr)
“I don’t want to be considered an ecologist, so I puff away on my cigarettes.”
Hayao Miyazaki
Hayao Miyazaki is a man who is not afraid of contradiction or ambivalence. The co-founder of Studio Ghibli and the director behind Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle, Miyazaki has twice announced his retirement from directing, and twice re-emerged with the intention of producing another film.
Those who know and love the films of Studio Ghibli are well aware of their uncompromising beauty and poignancy. In all their films, nature is depicted with a careful and intricate hand: images of lush swathes of rolling green, age-old forests home to fantastic creatures, and delicate fluttering flowers grace our screens. The attention to detail reflects Miyazaki’s great respect for the natural world, and indeed, a theme of environmentalism, or at least of ecological consciousness, emanates from his works.
A famous scene from Spirited Away depicts the arrival of a ‘stink spirit’ at the bathhouse where the protagonist Chihiro has been forced to take up work. The guest - an oozing mass of mud whose stench forces everyone away in disgust (and even causes two nearby bowls of rice to shrivel) - plunges into a bath prepared by Chihiro, turning the water into a thick sludge. Supplying the creature with more bathwater, she notices a thorn in its side. With the help of the rest of the bathhouse heaving behind her, she succeeds in pulling it out. What first resembled a small stick turns out to be an impossible quantity of muddied objects: bicycles, oil barrels, old pieces of furniture and general rubbish. The guest departs in its true, now purified form: a laughing dragon-like river spirit that rushes out into the night air.
Princess Mononoke (1997), whose plot revolves around the ‘Forest Spirit’ (source: Flickr)
No wonder, then, that Miyazaki has garnered a reputation as a staunch environmentalist, whose films move us to reflect on the noxious effects of consumer greed and capitalism. Unlike their Disney counterparts, which Miyazaki famously scorns, Ghibli films shy away from the classic binary distinction of good and evil. Instead, the subtle, shifting beauty depicted by Miyazaki points to a much larger issue at the heart of Studio Ghibli’s philosophy, namely the relationship between man and nature. Some have even resorted to calling the studio’s films ‘green cinema’. Yet to brand them thus, or even as films that tackle the issue of climate change, would be to misjudge them. It is all very well to accept a statement such as ‘Studio Ghibli wants to protect the environment’- but should we not ask ourselves why?
I have always loved animated film, and my childhood featured healthy doses of Disney, Dreamworks and Aardman. Yet it was Studio Ghibli that stole my heart. My first viewing of Laputa: Castle in the Sky was a pivotal moment in my childhood: never before had I witnessed such beautiful, unearthly harmony as that of the ‘lost city of Laputa’.
These films planted in me a sense of romanticism, and an understanding of nature that goes beyond the functional. For in the films of Studio Ghibli, the natural world is more than a mere backdrop: it is a plane for the intangible. It is a symbol of infinite possibility, ranging from the sombre wolf gods that prowl the world of Princess Mononoke to the universally loved Totoro. In Nausicaa, the Sea of Decay is at once beautiful and toxic, deadly and regenerative, and thus the natural world is charged with a sentience and agency that, in mainstream discourse, is often denied it. Nature in Studio Ghibli is never just a physical setting: it is otherworldly, and if nothing else, a reminder of the power and beauty of the imagination. These films do not so much concern the natural world and its importance as one’s connection to it.
The ‘Robot Soldier’ from Laputa: Castle in the Sky (1986) (source: Flickr)
Although my own childhood was spent in bustling cities, I cannot help but feel nostalgia for the countryside - if not for lived experience, then for those feelings of childhood innocence and awe kindled by the landscapes of these films. Perhaps an interpretation such as mine is only possible because of my very remoteness from real forests and fields, but as Takahata wrote of the children who watch My Neighbour Totoro: “when they see trees now, they sense Totoro hidden in them.” It seems that Studio Ghibli imbues nature with a magic that cannot be denied.
What many people fail to recognise is that Miyazaki is not so much an environmentalist as a lover of nature. Admittedly, the distinction is slight, but in the context of his films it is significant. I think it is important to keep in mind Miyazaki’s tendency to contradict himself before painting him as an environmental figurehead. When talking about the Totoro Forest Project, an independent movement to save the Sayama Hills, Miyazaki said this: “If they were a bunch of ecology fascists, we’d quit helping them.” In other words, his support stems from a genuine respect for people’s love of the area, rather than some belief of what is ‘right’ - a refreshing thought in a world obsessed with social and political point scoring.
Sayama Hills, where My Neighbour Totoro (1988) is set (source: Flickr)
Miyazaki is detail-oriented and scorns “big-picture, general statements about things.” To him, it is action that matters. Rather than “pontificating from a lectern” about the importance of saving the environment, Miyazaki prefers to participate in local preservation projects, such as cleaning rivers and collecting plastic bags. The same is true for why Miyazaki (famously) continues to smoke, and why he can say, “Be willing to take a certain amount of risk to preserve the environment. But don’t spend too much money, or even time, on it.” Not because he is a hypocrite, but because he is human, and reconciled to the reality of what one can and can’t do.
Imposing the advocacy of global-scale action - such as climate change - or some grand ‘environmental message’ on Studio Ghibli would therefore be to obscure the beauty of their works and to misunderstand their intentions. Of course, drawing attention to the filmmakers’ values and reasons behind their depictions of nature will not necessarily change a viewer’s takeaway; they might still be moved to take environmental action. But it could add a nuance to their understanding, and a greater appreciation and thoughtfulness vis-a-vis one’s own relationship with nature.
In my mind, if there is an environmental message to be taken from Miyazaki’s films, it is this: Let us not protect the environment because we have to, or because it is the right thing to do; let us do so because it is beautiful, because it makes us happy, because it evokes our respect and breathes life into our imagination.
