Mononoke-hime

Rating: 10/10 (19 September 2017)

Hayao Miyazaki's Princess Mononoke is big, brash and lyrical, bringing together several different ancient worlds into a new order where co-existence seems impossible. The film has been called the Star Wars of the east, but surely it is more than simply that, with a confidence and fluidity in its action-driven world building that immediately signals to us that these clans have existed for a very long time, and want to desperately continue that tradition. Then one day man discovered that iron ore could be forged into new and powerful tools, and the earth was broken to excavate it, and lines were drawn in the sand.
Miyazaki has never been shy about his moral lessons. His debut Nausicaa, from way before Studio Ghibli was even established let alone a household name, pitted its eponymous heroine in a post-apocalyptic wasteland where toxic fumes (man-made, presumably) had corrupted nature and its beasts, and only underground gardens housed plant life. Here in Mononoke you can see its influence from the beginning, in the way that the boar god Nago has been corrupted by an iron ball shot into his stomach, and how the evil spirits writhe and attempt to consume him. Their movements, each individually hand-drawn, become a furious, teeming mass that is immediately reminiscent of the gigantic, mutated Ohm with their churning legs. Like the Ohm, Nago is an intelligent creature that has been reduced to baser instincts because of humanity's stain. The apes likewise have taken on a hellish appearance, and resorted to eating unnatural things. Made 13 years later, Mononoke is Nausicaa but matured in almost every way. You could never equal the original imprint of 80s tone and mysticism, backed up by a Joe Hisaishi score that found beauty in the strange, alien landscape (the haunting children's choir is a testament to that). But the allegorical tapestry of Mononoke has no animated equal; it attempts no less than to account for every horse in the race for the forest, and in doing so lifts early didacticism into a universal fable.
Seeing it on the big screen for the first time, I marvel again at the artistry of Ghibli's animators. They twist beauty and corruption into one with their matte backgrounds; the whole damn world is under the curse of evolution and technological advancement, and the untouched nature is slowly bearing its scars. An early shot of an oxen delivery inching its way across a spiky mountain range and fog is reminiscent of the magnificence of Herzog's Aguirre, and how the opening dwarfs its tiny humans. In the midst of pure streams, still lakes and thick forests they draw cartoon violence that is undeniably shocking for the medium. Even Ashitaka trembles at how his corrupted arm lends him an otherworldly strength that allows his arrows to cleanly behead a chasing samurai. The pale Kodama seem cute at first, until they twist their heads all the way around and shiver, sending unease down our spines. And no one animates emotion quite like Miyazaki. When his characters run, they stumble and grasp for the ground, and almost leave skid marks turning corners. There's no run cycle in sight. Look how he evokes anger through the whole body; eyes widen, brows arch like caterpillars, hair bristles up as if charged with electricity. But nothing quite compares to the anger of the forest spirit in search of his stolen head from the invaders of his domain. Watching it I am filled with both thrill and fear; to have Miyazaki unleash the figurative fury of mother nature is to rebuke all previous images of the serene, gentle spirit. Does it simply give in to those who are poisoning the land? No, it has lived in peace for millennia and has not yet been challenged by individuals so powerful and careless at the same time. It launches a self-destructive last resort. It seeks to consume.
There is Miyazaki's caution of the modern world, of its unchecked progress and uncertainty, but this time around he also sees how it can bring new life for those previously downtrodden. Lady Eboshi rescues the women from filthy brothels and gives them good, hard work, and entrusts to the marginalised lepers the most important job of them all. She is not simply evil incarnate, but perhaps short-sighted. Her arrogance in her tools leads her to believe that she can kill a god, and she loses a hand for this. But she learns, and the town grows again. Ashitaka and San are the ones to bring true balance to the war. San herself is a discarded product of the conflict, neither fully wolf nor human. She reacts initially with an almost animalistic, blind rage, like that Okkoto, who has been fighting too long to see sense. And in the end, although she comes to accept that their must be give and take for both sides, cannot forget what the humans have done on behalf of progress. It is refreshing to see a film not so easily discard its character's convictions. A western film might have poised the romance as dramatic resolution. Yet Ashitaka knows that such atrocities are not quickly forgotten, and that only time can begin to heal them. One day that seedling may become a tree.