The Tale of Princess Kaguya: The Unfinished Life

When I first saw Ghibli’s The Tale of Princess Kaguya, I was not really a fan. The story was boring. The main protagonist acts too immaturely. The protagonist’s father is a greedy peasant. The art form was weird. The music was somewhat bland, completely opposite of what I expected from Joe Hisaishi, Ghibli’s legendary composer. There were no cinematic themes these like those of Toy Story, Star Wars, or Howl’s Moving Castle – the type that would be stuck in my head for days. This was not the type of animation I was used to. There were no flashing colors nor action scenes. But a few days ago, I decided to give the movie another shot, almost six years later. After stumbling across the movie’s chilling ending scene on youtube, I wanted to see the movie in a different light. After finishing the movie again, I realized that all of these components were not the movie’s weak point. They serve a purpose. 

Princess Kaguya, Isao Takahata’s final movie, was released in 2013. Takahata, who passed away last year, spent eight years on it. Despite its long production stage, why did the movie look so simple? Perhaps, artistic perfection was not what Takahata was aiming for. Since Grave of the Fireflies, Takahata has shown that “cartoons” can realistically depict human fragility – sometimes beyond what we can explain ourselves. Based on one of Japan’s oldest folktales, recorded around a thousand years ago, the story starts when a bamboo cutter discovers a tiny girl in a bamboo shoot. The girl grows up at an incredible rate, quickly assimilating herself into the life of her rural village. With the wealth bestowed on her family from heaven, she can live in a huge mansion in the capital with her family. Her beauty attracts nobles from across the land, but as she becomes sick of the world’s shallow desires, she asks the moon to take her back. Only when she realizes that going back to the moon means that her life on Earth will come to an end, she realizes that she will no longer be able to feel the world’s mixture of joy and grief, simplicities and complexities. 

In an interview with Wired, Takahata wanted the movie to be “impressionistic;” the type most likely fashioned by an artist who quickly sketches whatever occurs in front of him. At the same time, this style can also evoke early childhood memories of its audience. The simplicity comes off in its backgrounds and characters. From the very first scene where the bamboo cutter returns from the forest, the backgrounds look unfinished. The scenes are painted with pale watercolors, washing off into whiteness around the corners. The edges are less pronounced with pencil sketches and brush strokes softly shaping their forms. This was contrary to the usual vibrant Ghibli style that Kazuo Oga, the movie’s art director, usually implements. Involved in Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle as the main landscape artists, Oga’s style was differentiated through his use of bright colors and details. But his work in Princess Kaguya took an opposite turn. Despite losing the brightness of the colors, the whole movie was elevated by his choice. Watercolor and rough pencil sketches are often used for the preparation of the actual scene or animation sequence. But in this movie, they become the medium itself. It’s as if the form is saying that the movie should not be interpreted as a complete image of life, but a passage to somewhere else. This passage, to the movie’s protagonist, feels rushed. This is because it reflects her rapid growth and sudden involvement in the country’s high society. The early spring landscape quickly appears before turning, just as quickly, into winter again (yes, it skips both summer and fall). The characters that surround her are often drawn without a detailed face. It feels rushed, sure, but it serves to show her perspective. Because everything is rushed, she is not able to take in the nuances and details of life. And because of this, she begs to return and settle on the rural simplicity where she was born into. 

The music, too, feels as if it is unfinished. This may be partly due to the traditional Japanese chord progression that does not “resolve” or finish itself towards the end of a melody (take the national anthem for instance). Some may even argue that it sounds too simple. But this simplicity is its strength. The musical variations throughout the movie are mainly based off of two themes: a more melancholic The Little Princess (the main theme) and the more light-hearted Nursery Rhyme. However, these two do not each represent a specific emotion. They are a blend of joy and grief – kind of like yin and yang. Take a look at the nursery rhyme’s lyrics:

Round, round, go round, Waterwheel, go round

Go round, and call Mr. Sun

Go round, and call Mr. Sun

Birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers

Bring spring and summer, fall and winter

Bring spring and summer, fall and winter

Round, round, go round, Waterwheel, go round

The nursery rhyme may have an upbeat melody (though, in Princess Kaguya’s version, it has a more melancholic tone), but the more sober lyrics profoundly reflects the cycle of life: birth, growth and finally death. The seasons, the sun, all life on Earth. All are unable to escape from this cycle.

Throughout the movie, the soundtrack is headed by individual instruments. If an orchestra is included, their involvement is minimal: accompany the lonely instrument, usually some kind of string instrument, that lead the movie’s musical journey. Both the minimal landscape and musical arrangements play a role throughout the movie in emphasizing Princess Kaguya’s isolation from her surrounding as well as her limited time here on Earth. 

In the unfinished landscapes and soundtrack, life is depicted on a fast lane. It goes faster than you expect. Before you can take in all the details, those places and people you hold so close to you fade into soft colors whose edges slowly disappears with the passage of time. 

In this rushed life, joy and grief are not presented as opposite dualities. Before being taken away by celestial beings who claim that their City of the Moon, a kind of afterlife, will be free of the world's sorrow and filthiness, Princess Kaguya replies: “There’s joy. There’s grief. All who live here feel them in different shades.” These emotions may be like different colors such as blue and red, but they are crucial in painting life in purple. Neither is necessarily better. Without joy, the world falls into a dark void. Without grief, the world is a mere illusion. 

To me, the point of the movie is not really to stick with the audience, for nothing is truly permanent. The reason why scenes and music disappear from our heads so easily is because the sights and sound work towards the same goal: to show the transient nature of things. Despite being based on a 10th-century folktale, the movie remains as relevant as ever. In our current society, we may be pushed to “find our passions” or too quickly settle down for a job. We are pushed to quickly reach the top of the grade. We are encouraged to quickly churn out million dollar ideas that will put us above our peers. But not all of us will feel comfortable in this fast lane. We may feel that we are constantly moving (or pushed) through life, yet like a waterwheel, we are not going anywhere. At least that’s probably what Princess Kaguya felt while she was trapped in her large mansion. But we don’t have to feel like we are stuck in place. The season changes. The sun rises and falls. The bugs, flowers, and beasts emerge out of nothingness only to return to where they came from. Life goes on with or without us, and we can only watch it go. But we don’t have to dread about this changing nature. Indulging in this temporariness can bring us a mixture of joy and grief: chained complements that we cannot feel anywhere else. Not in heaven. Not on the City of the Moon. And so, even if we may be the waterwheel, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the river flow along with us, right?