Miyazaki Madness, Part 3: "Laputa: Castle in the Sky" is adventure movie perfection
The birth of Studio Ghibli, and a movie for the ages
On Thursdays, I’m publishing reviews of classic movies, including pieces that have never appeared online before taken from my book 200 Reviews, available now in Paperback or on Kindle (which you should really consider buying, because it’s an awesome collection!). In this series, we are examining the filmography of my all-time favorite movie director - and newly minted two-time Oscar winner with his win for The Boy and the Heron - Hayao Miyazaki! We will be looking at all of his theatrical feature films along with the movies he wrote but did not direct, for a total of 15 weeks of Miyazaki Madness! The series continues today with Miyazaki’s third feature - and the first under the newly-formed Studio Ghibli - 1986’s Laputa: Castle in the Sky. Enjoy…
Laputa: Castle in the Sky
1986, Dir. Hayao Miyazaki
Originally written August 1st, 2013, first published in 200 Reviews
Laputa: Castle in the Sky is one of, if not the, greatest adventure films ever made. Featuring all the spectacle, action, and perfectly paced thrills of a true adventure classic, but with a story that is simultaneously grander, deeper, and emotionally and philosophically richer than most entries in the genre ever aspire to, it is also one of Hayao Miyazaki’s greatest and most enduring masterpieces.
What strikes me most, every time I revisit the film, is the absolutely perfect pace. Pace is, of course, a tremendously difficult element to master in filmmaking, as a wholly engaging pace not only requires all elements to work in perfect harmony with one another, but for those elements to be arranged in such an order that each will have maximum impact. Miyazaki has demonstrated an incredible aptitude for pace throughout his career – in truth, my conception of what the term means comes from watching and studying his films – but Laputa is, to me, the brightest example in his entire filmography of how pace informs the viewing experience.
The film is incredibly exciting at times – I literally move to the edge of my seat whenever I watch the sequence wherein Pazu and the Dola gang save Sheeta from the military base – tremendously touching and poignant at others – Pazu and Sheeta atop the Tiger Moth ship, with the pirates listening in from below – and naturalistically relaxed and funny during other periods. The transitions between these various atmospheres are seamless, because each is intertwined with the others. Quiet moments subtly fuel our affection for these characters, so that the action has weight when it comes; laughter and brevity follow up intensity so that the viewer is not overwhelmed; and action and spectacle, in turn, recur not merely for entertainment, but so that the story has stakes, stakes that translate into our understanding of how these characters move through the world in which they live. Miyazaki’s pace is gentle yet precise, allowing each scene to build until it is fully fleshed out, and cutting when it is exactly the right time for the next phase of the story to begin. The feeling one gets while watching, of a relaxed yet utterly gripping fixation to the screen, is impossible to put into words, but a certain sign of perfect cinematic rhythm. In explaining to others what pace means in cinema, and how it is essential in constructing films that are both viscerally entertaining and emotionally and intellectually nourishing, Laputa is the example I would use, every single time.
One feels enveloped while watching Laputa, and it is a beautifully rich world to lose oneself in. Top to bottom, the film features some of Miyazaki’s greatest characters, from Dola and her quirky family of pirates to the many caring inhabitants of Pazu’s village to Pazu himself and his newfound friend, Sheeta. ‘Chemistry’ is not a word thrown around in animation much, but Pazu and Sheeta have it in droves. As animated, they simply fit together, interacting with an inspiringly deep connection, while the vocal performances by Mayumi Tanaka and Keiko Yokozawa – two of the very best pieces of acting in any Ghibli film, or even in animation history at large – evoke a warm passion of deep-seated friendship. This is not a romantic chemistry they share, for the children are of course too young to be interested in such things, but something even greater, a relationship in which each fulfills the other as a human being, and an honest, unbreakable trust is forged that means the world to both. Platonic love between boys and girls would, of course, be a staple of Miyazaki’s work going forward – most notably in Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, and Ponyo – but never would the sensation of such total, profound fulfillment between two young people be captured quite as powerfully as it is here.
The connection Pazu and Sheeta share is more than character detail, though – it is also key to Miyazaki’s core thematic message. Laputa deals with issues common to Miyazaki films, like industry, warfare, and nature, but it approaches the topics from a slightly different angle. While nature is prioritized as a path to harmony, it is not the focus of the film the way it is in Nausicaä or Mononoke, and those who work in industry that harms the environment – like the mining village Pazu belongs to – are in no way demonized for actions that will, in time, come to harm their surroundings. Miyazaki paints a dynamic and complex portrait of people struggling to live the only way they know how in the early going, and it is really not until the characters arrive on Laputa that we are reminded how nature can be negatively impacted by the machinations of man. Even then, the long-lost Laputan society – which built weapons of mass destruction, highly (and, I imagine, intentionally) reminiscent of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki – is not painted as villainous, but merely misguided. The floating island they built is a symbol of humanity’s capacity for beauty and creativity, but also a monument to our failings, yet another society that was destroyed by its own capacity for greed, warfare, and destruction. In all cases, the scenarios the film presents involve the dual nature of human actions – how good intentions can lead to bad ends, or simple efforts to live and thrive can, in time, spin out of control.
This is where Pazu and Sheeta come in. As children, they exist in a world they had no hand in forging, and yet it is their duty, as it is for all young people, to move forward from the mistakes of the past. Laputa plays host to the only outright, one-dimensionally evil antagonist in Miyazaki’s entire filmography – Colonel Muska, who strives to conquer Laputa and use its weaponry to acquire power – but while Miyazaki tends to characterize with a less overt hand, the absolute darkness of this character provides a crucial challenge to Pazu and Sheeta. He is a manifestation of humanity at its most wicked, the end result of the various social and environmental systems we are shown both on earth and in the sky, and the question Miyazaki asks, through Muska’s confrontation with the children, is whether or not a younger generation – humanity’s future, in essence – can remain pure against the face of such overwhelming evil. As such, some of the latter stretches of Laputa are extremely dark, and uncompromisingly so at times (there is no blood, but I would put this film second only to Mononoke in terms of on-screen violence), but it is all in service of paving the way for the film’s beautiful, inspiring climax. The moment when Pazu and Sheeta choose to utter the spell of destruction, clasping hands and standing tall in the face of villainy, having learned from the failures of their forbearers and resolving to live a better life, is astonishingly powerful, and one of the defining moments in Miyazaki’s canon. It is as clear an expression as exists in any of his films of his base philosophy on how we must live and endure through our imperfect world to the best of our ability if we are to discover peace.
Visually, Laputa is just as richly detailed as its predecessor, Nausicaä, with densely decorated landscapes and complex, functional machinery that is absolutely fascinating to look at. These two films are, in many ways, the most transfixing to me visually, because they are simply bursting at the seems with detail, utility, and vitality, illustrated with the precise, angular quality that is common of Miyazaki’s early cinematic work. And of all Miyazaki’s films, this is definitely my favorite depiction of flying and air travel. The vast majority of the film takes place in the air, and the sensation of being airborne and ungrounded is remarkably pervasive, to the point where, whenever I finish the film, it suddenly seems strange to be locked to the earth.
There are several films in Miyazaki’s filmography where, whenever I revisit them, I am convinced they are the very best work he has ever produced (and, thus, one of the absolute best movies in cinematic history). Laputa is one of those. I am sure I will be swayed by Totoro, Kiki, or Mononoke as I keep moving through the canon again, unable to ever pinpoint an exact favorite, just as I am equally certain I will always be bowled over by the magnificence of Laputa whenever I return to it.
NEXT WEEK: You know him. You love him. He’s big. He’s furry. He’s got a Cat Bus. His name lives in infamy. It’s time for My Neighbor Totoro…
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