I am an unabashed cynic. As well as an incurable romantic. Which both my readers and my friends may not entirely realize, as I am reasonably good at keeping my mouth shut. The civilized man does not wear his heart on his sleeve, lest it frighten away people afraid of moist and palpitating internal organs, and does not exhibit his emotions in public, because it might scare horses, little old ladies, and vegans.
We have to live with the horses and little old ladies, and we don't want them to bolt. If they did, that would be bad. Hooves and teeth.
Not so sure about vegans, however.
Are they any use?
When I woke up this morning, a scene from Whisper of the Heart was replaying in my head. It's one of my favourite movies, and one of the very best that Studio Ghibli ever produced.
[Definitely the nicest thing any song by John Denver was ever involved in.]
Basically, I'm a sucker for innocent romance and fairy-tale fantasy. Plus sensitivity, insight, and wit. Studio Ghibli caters to all of those weaknesses, and naturally I have seen almost everything they've done. The one movie that I resist, and probably will never watch, is Grave of the Fireflies; it is far too sad.
There is a keen difference between the mindless drivel most American animators produce and the thoughtful intro-spective stimuli that we exepct from Hayao Miyazaki and his friends. Part of it is the believability of his protagonists; they seem like the kind of person one would like to be, or like to know.
After a while, the green-haired monsters and ultra-busty femme-fatales of Disney and Pixar pall; the heroes and heroines of Ghibli live on, and invade one's dreams. Where they are always welcome guests.
What was it that I dreamt of, you ask?
It involved ramen noodles.
Don't know why.
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