In 2013, Studio Ghibli released The Wind Rises, a World War II biopic about Jiro Horikoshi, the chief engineer of Imperial Japan's best fighter plane. To me, it was one of the studio's weakest films by far, with clumsy writing and questionably unexamined morality celebrating an Axis power weapons designer. But The Wind Rises was mostly met with critical acclaim, and its director, storied animator and visionary Hayao Miyazaki, publicly announced his retirement. He had cofounded the accoladed studio and directed eleven films, and was well into his 70s. 

But whether it's Tom Brady's Tampa Bay seasons or Elton John's five-year-long "final tour", it's hard for greats to retire, especially when they have no one to whom they can pass the reins. Studio Ghibli tried for years to find an adequate successor to step into Miyazaki's shoes — most notably, his son Goro, who turned down the offer to run the studio — so it was no surprise when rumors of Miyazaki's return for another feature film started swirling.

Thus, a decade after his "retirement," The Boy and the Heron is finally in theaters as Miyazaki's newest historical fantasy film, with the director showing no signs of re-retiring. And while the movie isn't Miyazaki's best, it does show that he absolutely doesn't need to; The Boy and the Heron is a good installment in the Miyazaki oeuvre, reflecting the same worldbuilding, narrative themes, and visual skill that first brought him international acclaim decades ago.

Like many Ghibli films, the film opens with a "fish out of water" young protagonist. In this case, it's Mahito, a boy whose mother dies in a fire during World War II so his family must relocate for safety (and to be closer to his father's new wife Natsuko, unfortunately the dead mom's younger sister). In Natsuko's countryside home, Mahito encounters some Miyazaki-staple elements, including a host of small old women housekeepers, a sealed-off entryway with a mysterious backstory, and a large heron that seems to have taken an interest in Mahito. As with many fish out of water, Mahito doesn't immediately take to his new surroundings; he gets in fights at school, injures himself, and spends considerable time in bedrest.

Soon enough the fantastical starts creeping in, though; the heron speaks to Mahito, promising him reunification with his deceased mother; Natsuko wanders into the forest and disappears; frogs and birds threaten to attack and engulf Mahito. Determined to find Natsuko, Mahito and one of the old housekeepers, crotchety and nervous Kiriko, venture through the forest and into another dimension. There, the journey really begins, as Mahito encounters a troll-like man wearing the heron's skin, violent pelicans, bubble-like spirits, a pyromancer, militant parakeets, and an all-powerful warlock. 

The voice cast is all talented — particularly the youthful determination of Soma Santoki as Mahito, the double-edged nature of Masaki Suda as the heron (scary in bird form, dopey in man form), and the time-wizened advice of Shōhei Hino as the grand-uncle — but it's Miyazaki's characteristic visuals and sound that carry the film when it succeeds. On the former, the film's hand-drawn animation is gorgeous and endlessly imaginative, portraying the horrors of sickness and death with equal beauty and grace as mystical underwater barges, heavenly ascensions, or civilizations comprised of battle-ready parakeets. 

On the latter, sound design makes the worlds feel real from mundane raindrop plops and door slams to myriad sounds made by otherworldly creatures, the splitting of planets, or the space of parallel-reality environments. In addition, composer Joe Hisaishi's score is as superb as ever, with beautiful swells matching birds' flight and discordant notes accentuating fights and high-energy moments. (I had the magnificent privilege to see Hisaishi conduct his Ghibli scores live at Radio City Music Hall, so I'm biased towards celebrating his genius hook, line, and sinker.)

Sumptuous visuals and sound aside, though, Miyazaki's script is good but bloated. As a writer, he's historically been at his strongest when given freedom to explore fantastical realms and concepts while still being constrained to a specific setting or conceit. Spirited Away, perhaps his most famous work, is a great example; although Chihiro's adventures introduce her to all sorts of strange and fascinating characters, it's largely set within the bathhouse, offering valuable grounding to the wide-ranging story. A personal favorite, Porco Rosso, is similar; the main character is a magic-cursed pig, of course, but otherwise themes like the dehumanization of war are crystal-clear against the realistic Adriatic backdrop.

In The Boy and the Heron, though, Miyazaki's imagination runs too wild, and can't resist introducing too many side plots and derivative characters along Mahito's journey. The connection of the parallel universe to the real world is a tenuous one, and doesn't offer much use in the way of characterizing "reality" versions of Himi or Kiriko since their linkage is never defined. The pelicans' plight of starvation is heartfelt but far disconnected to the central storyline. A king of the parakeets has potential to be a great villain, but shows up too late to be anything more than comic relief. A Natsuko rescue scene is too hastily resolved, and a potential tie-in to Mahito's father is never taken advantage of fully.

Fortunately, though, the portion of the script that successfully resonates most loudly is the one modeled after Hayao Miyazaki himself: the warlock grand-uncle, whose central plight is that he is too old and needs someone to adopt his world-shaping responsibilities, conspicuously reflects the director's own succession challenges, made more poignant by son Goro Miyazaki's real-life rejection of the Ghibli mantle. 

The film's conclusion carefully invites ambiguity about how Miyazaki feels about his own situation, particularly after Japanese company Nippon TV purchased Studio Ghibli late last year. The gray area is furthered by the fact that the film was previously titled How Do You Live?, a bleaker rhetorical question that suggests Miyazaki's own changing attitudes in the years since production started.

Either way, we can only hope that Miyazaki's career continues for many more years, and continues with the same sense of reflection and beautiful animation as The Boy and the Heron (albeit with a return to slightly pared-down scripts).