Princess Mononoke - Hayao Miyazaki
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Princess Mononoke, directed by Hayao Miyazaki in 1997, is perhaps his most serious, epic, and intense film. A monumental work where the poetry of nature clashes with the brutality of progress, where beauty coexists with rage, and where no character is left untouched — none purely good or evil. This film doesn’t seek comfort, but awakening. An ancient, almost sacred cry about our connection to the living world — and the violence we inflict upon it.
It all begins with Ashitaka, a prince of the Emishi people, cursed by a supernatural force. To uncover the origin of this taint, he journeys west — to a land where nature and humans are at war. Where gods have become beasts, humans mine and conquer, and a feral girl, San — called “Princess Mononoke” — fights alongside the forest spirits against those who destroy her world.
This isn’t a story of good versus evil. It’s a web of conflict, pain, and legitimate anger. Lady Eboshi, head of the industrial city, is no villain: she protects outcasts, heals lepers, and empowers women. But she cuts down the forest. She kills the gods. She treats the earth as a tool. On the other side, beasts and spirits fight not to rule — but to survive.
San is no shining heroine. She hates humans — even herself, raised by wolves. She embodies the fury of nature betrayed. Ashitaka stands between worlds. He doesn’t take sides — he seeks understanding, healing, and balance. It’s this rare position that gives the film its inner tension. There are no easy answers — only choices, and consequences.
Visually, Princess Mononoke is stunning. Each frame is a living painting. The forest is a sanctuary where light filters through leaves like a dream. Creatures — from tiny Kodama to grand forest gods — are animated with spiritual gentleness. But when war erupts, beauty turns brutal. Fights are violent, fast, raw. Limbs are lost. Blood flows. Death is real and irreversible.
Joe Hisaishi’s score echoes this duality — majestic and solemn at times, quiet and tense at others. It gives the film an inner voice — of an ancient world watching, suffering, yet still breathing.
Miyazaki doesn’t condemn technology. He doesn’t idealize nature. He portrays an ancient rift and asks: how can we live in balance without betraying what surrounds us? And more importantly: is it still possible? The film offers no answer. Only ruins, wounds — but also a regrowing tree. An outstretched hand. An impossible but real love. Hope, without a promise.
Princess Mononoke is a rare film. Powerful, complex, inexhaustible. It doesn’t console — it demands responsibility. It doesn’t divide the world — it connects it. And it reminds us we’re not above or outside of nature — we are part of it, and it will outlive us.