The One Documentary Every Hayao Miyazaki Fan Needs to See

I'll admit, I'm probably late to the party, but sometimes the best discoveries are made when the dust has settled. Today, I want to talk about the most recent Studio Ghibli documentary, "Hayao Miyazaki and the Heron," and how it didn't just offer a glimpse into a legendary mind, but fundamentally altered my understanding of "The Boy and the Heron" itself.

This film is far more than a simple "making-of." It's an intimate, often raw, and profoundly in-depth exploration of Hayao Miyazaki, tracing his creative process and personal odyssey during the creation of what was, at the time, presumed to be his final cinematic statement, "The Boy and the Heron." Spanning multiple years, the documentary is a masterclass in patient observation, meticulously charting Miyazaki’s artistic philosophy, his obsessive attention to detail, and the profound internal struggles he faces as he emerges from retirement. It's a testament to his unwavering commitment to his craft, even as the world around him shifts and fades.

Through extraordinary behind-the-scenes footage, almost feeling like a series of private vlogs accompanying Miyazaki, and invaluable insights from the dedicated Studio Ghibli staff, the documentary captures the arduous, almost spiritual, yet undeniably magical process of hand-drawn animation that has defined his illustrious career. We witness the painstaking strokes, the endless revisions, the sheer physical and mental endurance required to bring these vibrant worlds to life, all powered by the singular vision of one man.

What truly elevated this documentary for me was how seamlessly it wove in scenes and iconic music from Miyazaki's most renowned films. These moments, already rich with nostalgia and meaning, are given an entirely new dimension when viewed through the lens of the documentary's revelations. Understanding the deeper inspirations and the behind-the-scenes struggles only amplifies the brilliance we've come to expect from Ghibli. It’s like discovering the secret chord that makes a familiar melody even more poignant.

But perhaps the most striking aspect is Miyazaki himself. He is presented here with an incredible vulnerability and candor. We see him visibly grappling with the immense pressure of the filmmaking process, often lost in thought, sketching furiously, or simply gazing out of a window. What truly resonates, however, is the constant undercurrent of grief. Throughout the documentary's entire runtime, the news of those around him passing away — most notably the profound impact of Isao Takahata’s death — reverberates, a somber echo that underscores the themes of legacy, loss, and the relentless march of time that so permeate "The Boy and the Heron." It’s a powerful reminder that even titans of industry are susceptible to the human condition.

Now, here's where my personal journey with these films takes an interesting turn. Honestly, when I first watched "The Boy and the Heron," and even on a second viewing on Netflix, I wasn't particularly impressed. It felt disjointed, a little too abstract, and perhaps, for me, lacked the immediate emotional resonance of his earlier masterpieces.

However, "Hayao Miyazaki and the Heron" is nothing short of an essential companion piece. It's the key that unlocks the enigma. This documentary hasn't just enhanced my appreciation of Miyazaki's latest film; it has fundamentally changed my opinion on it. It allowed me to value the incredible, often solitary, journey Miyazaki undertook to create this deeply personal work. More importantly, it highlighted just how profoundly the people in his life – his colleagues, his mentors, and the loved ones he mourned – influenced every character we see, every nuanced expression, and every philosophical question posed within the film.

What once felt like a meandering narrative now reveals itself as a deeply felt meditation on grief, memory, and the responsibility of the living to carry forward the torch. The whimsical, sometimes bewildering, elements of "The Boy and the Heron" now resonate with the very real emotional landscape Miyazaki was navigating. This documentary doesn't just show you how a film is made; it shows you why it had to be made, and how a lifetime of experience, sorrow, and unyielding creativity converges into one extraordinary, complex final act. If you, like me, felt a disconnect with "The Boy and the Heron," do yourself a favour: watch this documentary. It might just change your mind too.