It’s no exaggeration to say that Hayao Miyazaki’s body of work stands as one of the most influential in the history of animation. His films shaped generations of storytellers and audiences alike, including my own love for imaginative, emotionally rich storytelling. From “My Neighbor Totoro” to “Spirited Away,” Miyazaki created entire worlds where wonder and heartbreak could coexist in a way few directors ever achieve. Now, with “The Boy and the Heron,” he returns for what is rumored to be his final film—a quiet, meditative goodbye that doesn’t aim for a grand slam, but instead feels like a solid single in a final at-bat. It’s an ending that is both fitting and deeply personal.
Set during World War II, “The Boy and the Heron” follows Mahito, a boy uprooted from Tokyo after the death of his mother. Relocated to the countryside, Mahito struggles to adapt to a new life and a new family dynamic. Lured by a mysterious gray heron, he soon crosses into a strange and perilous world where parakeets rule kingdoms, time folds in on itself, and memory and loss intertwine in ways that defy explanation. The journey becomes less about rescue or escape, and more about survival—about learning how to live after unimaginable loss.
At its best, “The Boy and the Heron” is pure Miyazaki: visually rich, boldly imaginative, and achingly intimate. The hand-drawn animation has a tangible warmth, while some of the dreamlike sequences feel more fluid and unbound than anything Miyazaki has done before. Moments like Mahito stepping through a crumbling tower filled with living memories, or confronting armies of giant pelicans, feel like they could only come from the mind of a master still pushing the form forward.
And yet, this isn’t a film concerned with clarity. Unlike the accessible arcs of “Spirited Away” or “Howl’s Moving Castle,” “The Boy and the Heron” resists easy interpretation. Dreams and reality blur with little warning. Character motivations shift without full explanation. It’s a film that feels guided by instinct rather than design. Some audiences will find that freedom exhilarating. Others may find themselves distanced by it, searching for emotional payoff that feels just out of reach.
What carries the film is the undercurrent of mourning. Mahito’s journey is not about triumphing over adversity in the traditional sense. It’s about learning to live with grief—how to move forward without fully letting go. Miyazaki doesn’t offer easy answers, and that restraint feels deeply honest. At 82, he seems more interested in questions than resolutions.
As a farewell, if this truly is one, “The Boy and the Heron” feels perfect in its imperfection. It gathers the emotional textures that have defined Miyazaki’s career—loss, resilience, the wildness of imagination—and spins them into something that lingers more than it concludes. It’s not a grand summation, but a parting gesture that trusts the audience to find their own meaning inside the beauty and sadness of it all.
If this is the final chapter of Miyazaki’s towering career, it’s a sendoff as quietly brave as any of the heroes he ever drew.