Life’s precious. It’s also really stressful and unforgiving. How do these contradictory statements manage to coexist? How do they do so without overtaking one another? And how do we internalize both?
I’ve struggled for years to comprehend the messiness of life. I’ve done so with little success. Yet the closest I’ve gotten to a breakthrough came with The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, the last film from Isao Takahata before his death two years ago. Taking roughly 8 years to complete, the movie, one Takahata wanted to make for decades, feels like a labour of love. The film also looks distinct in the Studio Ghibli catalogue, drawing from Japanese watercolour paintings instead of the company’s usual style. It’s also a haunting, cautionary tale about life itself, and it’s easily my favourite from the director.
The Tale of the Princess Kaguya retells one of Japan’s oldest folktales. It follows an elderly bamboo cutter discovering a sprite inside a bamboo shoot. Curious, he takes it home to his wife, only for it to transform into a baby in an instant. As the baby becomes a young girl, the bamboo cutter insists that she be raised in the capital as a princess. However, the girl, renamed Kaguya, has no intentions of living that lifestyle.
When I first watched this movie, I was entranced. I knew it was special, yet I couldn’t grasp why. It was a Takahata movie, but it wasn’t like Takahata’s other films. This is because Isao Takahata’s work usually tests my patience with its pacing. But this movie, despite being the longest Studio Ghibli’s produced to-date, is unique. And I think that has to do with its dual themes of valuing life and pushing away societal expectations.
It takes a while, but as early as the first-act the movie plants its seeds. Whether it’s Kaguya’s father’s overbearing and overprotective nature, or her sorrowful rendition of “Warabe Uta” that she sings to the village children, we’re constantly reminded of what’s to come. This makes the move to the capital in search of a “better life” all-the-more heartbreaking.
The first sign that the film’s not messing around comes with its most-infamous scene. During Kaguya’s naming festival, she overhears some drunken aristocrats mock her. Furious and hurt, Kaguya darts out of the capital to her old village. The scenery, literally, also becomes sketchy as Kaguya sheds her garments. When complimented by its music, the scene make something clear: forcing youth to live a lie always backfires, especially when they don’t consent.
This message resurfaces throughout, but nowhere is it more-apparent than in Kaguya’s rejection of the five suitors. After hearing vapid platitudes about her beauty, she requests that they each find the object of their comparison and bring it to her. Only three do, but even then she still challenges their gifts. Through this comes the grand thesis statement: empty platitudes are meaningless when not backed with substance. Here, the movie bluntly mocks Japan for failing its youth and demanding they be adults prematurely.
I find this powerful. Despite The Tale of the Princess Kaguya being an anime film, its message resonates in the West too. Far too often we expect our youth to mature too quickly. Sometimes, we even over-sexualize them in the process. It’s a tricky tightrope to walk, and this movie suggests it’s best not walked at all. Let kids be kids! They’ll grow up in due time!
Even with Kaguya rebelling against the nobility, the movie never gives back her old life. Moments of levity, like Kaguya dancing underneath the cherry blossoms, are even cut short when she bumps into a commoner’s child. Is Kaguya never meant to be happy? Must she remain miserable for eternity? This is only outcome if she continues her façade, unfortunately.
This message resurfaces throughout, but nowhere is it more-apparent than in Kaguya’s rejection of the five suitors. After hearing vapid platitudes about her beauty, she requests that they each find the object of their comparison and bring it to her. Only three do, but even then she still challenges their gifts. Through this comes the grand thesis statement: empty platitudes are meaningless when not backed with substance. Here, the movie bluntly mocks Japan for failing its youth and demanding they be adults prematurely.
I find this powerful. Despite The Tale of the Princess Kaguya being an anime film, its message resonates in the West too. Far too often we expect our youth to mature too quickly. Sometimes, we even over-sexualize them in the process. It’s a tricky tightrope to walk, and this movie suggests it’s best not walked at all. Let kids be kids! They’ll grow up in due time!
Even with Kaguya rebelling against the nobility, the movie never gives back her old life. Moments of levity, like Kaguya dancing underneath the cherry blossoms, are even cut short when she bumps into a commoner’s child. Is Kaguya never meant to be happy? Must she remain miserable for eternity? This is only outcome if she continues her façade, unfortunately.
Kaguya’s rejection of the suitors eventually reaches the Emperor of Japan. Realizing she’s turned all of them down, he visits Kaguya one fateful day. As he gazes upon her beauty, he succumbs to lust and gropes her. Terrified, Kaguya recoils and briefly vanishes. This scene always makes me uncomfortable given my youth. But it also reframes the moment in light of Japan’s unwillingness to break the dam with its various MeToo scandals. I wouldn’t be surprised if this film’s looked back on one day as the beginning of “the revolution”, so to speak.
Yet the film becomes even more somber here, especially as it reaches its third-act message. What was once a commentary on isolation becomes a rallying cry against the establishment. Kaguya begins dreading her return to The Moon, as that’s where she came from. From its description, she seems to be crying out for a release in the only way possible: suicide.
And here’s where the movie becomes extra heavy. I know people who’ve taken their lives to suicide. Some were really close to me. Suicide’s no laughing matter, but for some it feels like the only out at the moment. In some cases, the failure to carry it out is even more-stressful. I know someone who was angry that their suicide attempt was foiled, only forgiving the intervention with time.
Yet the film becomes even more somber here, especially as it reaches its third-act message. What was once a commentary on isolation becomes a rallying cry against the establishment. Kaguya begins dreading her return to The Moon, as that’s where she came from. From its description, she seems to be crying out for a release in the only way possible: suicide.
And here’s where the movie becomes extra heavy. I know people who’ve taken their lives to suicide. Some were really close to me. Suicide’s no laughing matter, but for some it feels like the only out at the moment. In some cases, the failure to carry it out is even more-stressful. I know someone who was angry that their suicide attempt was foiled, only forgiving the intervention with time.
I think this is where the film really shocked me. I was expecting heavy content from the same director who made a movie about war and apathy 25 years earlier, but this? Tackling depression, alienation and suicide? From an animated fantasy film? Surely you jest!
But it runs with it. And I have to applaud the movie for sticking to its guns, difficult as that may be. Even Kaguya’s struggle feels honest and heartfelt, and her brief reunion with her childhood friend reminds the audience how precious life is. Because despite suicide feeling like a last-resort, many who do it only want help. Some even regret the decision once it’s too late.
Once the inevitable ceremony of death approaches, and Kaguya’s ripped from her Earthly parents, we get one last attempt at a goodbye. And it’s uncomfortable. And it hurts to watch. Because we’ve grown attached to Kaguya, and we know she never wanted this. It also hurts from her mother and father’s perspective, as the pain of losing a child never goes away. Even the last shot, that of an infant Kaguya in the centre of The Moon, symbolizes the lost innocence of Japan’s youth, forced into Hikikomori Syndrome or suicide in their attempts to cope.
But it runs with it. And I have to applaud the movie for sticking to its guns, difficult as that may be. Even Kaguya’s struggle feels honest and heartfelt, and her brief reunion with her childhood friend reminds the audience how precious life is. Because despite suicide feeling like a last-resort, many who do it only want help. Some even regret the decision once it’s too late.
Once the inevitable ceremony of death approaches, and Kaguya’s ripped from her Earthly parents, we get one last attempt at a goodbye. And it’s uncomfortable. And it hurts to watch. Because we’ve grown attached to Kaguya, and we know she never wanted this. It also hurts from her mother and father’s perspective, as the pain of losing a child never goes away. Even the last shot, that of an infant Kaguya in the centre of The Moon, symbolizes the lost innocence of Japan’s youth, forced into Hikikomori Syndrome or suicide in their attempts to cope.
Much has been made of this movie’s loss at The Oscars to Big Hero 6. While I don’t think a Studio Ghibli movie warrants awards based on its namesake alone, here I can see the argument. Not helping was The Academy’s reluctance to take the film seriously, referring to it, and I kid you not, as “those Chinese fuckin’ things”. That not only insults its ability to tell a complex story of heartbreak and love, it spits in the face of what animation’s capable of as a medium. Because it deserves better than that!
The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, despite its watercolour animation, is a hard movie to watch. It’s also not for everyone. But that doesn’t make it any less-relevant in a world where materialism overshadows individualism. In a time where a global pandemic has exposed all of society’s systemic flaws, perhaps a re-evaluation of this movie in the grander pantheon is necessary. But I can’t guarantee it won’t make you cry, even though that’s the point.
And I expect nothing less, too. Rest in peace, Takahata-San. You sure know how to make an exit!
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