The Boy and the Heron (2023)

The Boy and the Heron feels like watching a master painter turn grief into weather: a film where every frame breathes, and every strange creature or impossible hallway seems to echo something human. Miyazaki wraps a wartime coming-of-age story in a dreamlike fantasy that’s equal parts eerie, funny, and quietly devastating, letting wonder and sorrow sit side by side without forcing easy answers. The animation isn’t just beautiful; it’s expressive in the way great cinema is, building a world so imaginative and tactile you can almost feel the wind off its cliffs and the heat of its fires. It’s also more symbolic and emotionally searching than plot-driven, so if you want a tidy adventure it may feel elusive—but if you’re open to being moved by images, mood, and meaning, it’s the kind of film that stays with you long after the credits.

The Boy and the Heron is Miyazaki aiming for a late-career meditation on grief and growing up, told through a surreal fantasy that runs on symbolism more than plot. The animation and atmosphere are often breathtaking, but the storytelling can feel scattered, with abrupt transitions and dream logic that refuses to explain itself when you want it to. If you’re expecting a clean, emotionally direct adventure with clear rules and tidy payoffs, this may leave you frustrated or oddly distant on a first watch. If you’re happy to drift through strange imagery, accept ambiguity, and let the meaning arrive later (or not at all), it’s a haunting, singular experience worth your time.