The Wind Rises

The Wind Rises is about cursed dreams and the kind of people who choose to pursue them

Jiro Horikoshi is a dreamer. We see that from the first scene of the film. His dreams are very wonderful, fantasy-laden, and benevolent. All he wants to do is design planes. He studies plane engineering all his life and becomes a bit of a sought-after genius.

This film is anti-war. Note the small, seemingly inconsequential scene where Jiro beats up some kids picking on another kid. He gets home, his mother sees him bruised and tells him fighting is never justified. Jiro is told this straight-up as a child. (Going ahead a bit, also note the small scene in the boardroom as Jiro listens to the demands of the military. Though played for laughs, the military is shown as completely bestial, all shouting at once with eyes that bug out in the same manner as the greedy bathhouse attendants from Spirited Away)

Ten years pass and he's getting a job designing fighter planes for an upcoming war. Jiro should know that this is a morally shaky decision, but never acts like it is. Jiro continuously seems barely, if at all affected by the horrors taking place around him, always inside his own head. Even in the midst of a horrible earthquake he retreats into fantasy. In one of his fantasies, the Italian aeronautic engineer Caproni asks Jiro if he would prefer to live in a world with or without pyramids. It's a metaphor for the fact that technological advancements can sometimes cause pain, and are often co-opted and commissioned by the powerful to do so. Caproni says he prefers a world with pyramids. When Jiro is asked for his preference, he says, "I just want to design beautiful planes." He gives an indirect answer, delaying the moment of confronting himself with the moral questions and implications of his work.

Over the course of the film, Jiro is presented with signs that his dream is cursed, and perhaps what he's doing might be wrong. Much of this comes up when Jiro, seemingly distraught for the first time, meets the German Mr. Castorp. Castorp brings up the reality of the situation Jiro's country is in, things Jiro presumably knows perfectly well as a Japanese citizen, but never seems to acknowledge himself:

His country has arrogantly started a war with China.

His country has set up a puppet government in Manchuria.

His country has dropped out of the league of nations and made the world its enemy.

His country is allied with Hitler's government, they being the Nazi party, which Castorp describes as "nothing but a gang of hoodlums." Jiro himself witnessed a Gestapo raid while in Germany, but stood there along side Honjo simply looking.

Jiro and Honjo should be perfectly aware of the fucked up situation they're in, but continue to tell themselves and each other that they just want to design beautiful planes. Still, while Honjo will acknowledge the horrible things their military is planning on doing with their aircraft and talks about it to Jiro, Jiro never engages and stays silent. Listening, but not fully confronting reality, letting his focus drift back to his dreams and work soon after these conversations.

Castorp's character tells us about the nature of cursed dreams and this film's attitude towards them. He himself is condemned. Given that he's a white German with the biggest nose in the movie, it's not entirely ludicrous to assume that he's Jewish. Even if that isn't so, he's a dissenter towards his government's actions. The Nazis killed both those kinds of people.

Castorp knows he's doomed, but chooses to remain cheerful about the remainder of his life, yet realistic in acknowledging that the time he and Jiro spend in that hotel might be the last happy moment in their lives before reality comes crumbling around them. Still he smiles, plays the dang piano, and seems really excited for the potential happiness of the people around him. He says this is truly a summer to be remembered, the subtext being that soon after will come the disastrous autumn and winter. Enjoy this moment.

We know that Castorp is doomed after Jiro's boss at Mitsubishi tells him about his friends and co-workers that have been taken away by "the secret police, the thought-crime boys," without knowing why. Likely these people were more vocal about their concerns regarding the war. Jiro remembers how odd it seemed that Castorp left so soon without telling anyone about it (yet he's lucky enough to see Jiro out of his car window and wave goodbye to him, still never slowing down)

All of these horrific situations brush right past Jiro. He barely considers them until someone brings it up. Because Jiro is a dreamer to the point of neglecting the world around him. He ignores all the negativity and focuses on his fantasy of being a guy who designs beautiful planes.

Jiro hardly notices these things in the same way the audience might not notice them. The film sprinkles little hints of horror around you, just as life does around Jiro (though probably more obvious in the film's "reality," it only seems sprinkled given Jiro's dreamer-nature of being inside his own head,) and mostly directs you into focusing on Jiro's beautiful fantasies instead, just as Jiro directs himself to do.

Nahoko Satomi is a cursed dream whose romance with Jiro parallels the main story

There were a couple of reviewers who thought the romance plot was focused on too much, and perhaps even a waste of time. Maybe the last 30-minutes should've been dedicated to war footage with Jiro looking on in horror realizing the error of his ways, or at least have had Jiro look a bit more psychologically disturbed as we approach the end. Well, let me tell you why the romance makes sense:

Jiro's romance with Nahoko draws a parallel with Jiro's love of planes. Notice how when Nahoko tells him she has tuberculosis, Jiro's facial expression doesn't change at all. He doesn't miss a beat, doesn't reflect on it for a second before telling Nahoko that her imminent untimely death won't drag him away from his love for her.

"Is this foolish, or romantic?" The same questions the audience has about Jiro's involvement in designing war planes, we have about his marriage to a sick girl. Just as with the former moral dilemma, Jiro is only forced to confront the horrors of reality only when some one brings it up to him, or if he's otherwise directly affected, and these moments are often brief.

Jiro's sister Kayo tells him that Nahoko puts on rouge every morning so that she doesn't appear sickly, so Jiro doesn't worry. When Kayo starts crying and begs Jiro to answer why he would do this to her, to drag her along on this foolish dream with him, it mirrors our concern about Jiro's naively optimistic involvement in what amounts to a horrific war with his country's military and government being far from innocent.

Nahoko suffers from a lung-hemmorage. Jiro is confronted with reality and begins to cry. He rushes back home to her just to stay with her for a little while and hold her hand. Soon after they get married. Soon after Nahoko returns to a sanatorium. Then Jiro's boss' house, where his sister looks after her.

Jiro stays with Nahoko overnight at this house one last time and works on his design while holding her hand, never letting go of either of his dreams. Late in the night, Jiro needs a cigarette and asks if he can stop holding her hand to go outside. Nahoko, just as optimistic as Jiro and knowing the time they have is precious, says she doesn't mind. Jiro acknowledges the health risk, Nahoko says go ahead. And Jiro does. Another moment reflecting Jiro's optimistic, seemingly irresponsible nature.

Miyazaki is woefully nostalgic for Japan before it got wrecked

While Jiro's away witnessing the test flight for his latest (and final) model, Nahoko claims to feel better, goes for a walk outside and leaves the boss' house. Unbeknownst to his wife whom she says this to, Nahoko is actually not feeling better and has left with the intention to die. Kayo, on the bus to the house, sees her walking away out the window and panics. She arrives at the house, rushes to Nahoko's room, and sees the notes she left. Kayo knows that she's left to die so that the dream of her beautiful youthful self is always preserved in Jiro's mind, so that he may never see her visibly unhealthy and finally dead.

This is actually less a metaphor for what the movie is about and more a metaphor for the movie itself. Miyazaki focused on a lot of the positive aspects of Jiro's life and of Japan at that time because this Japan was also a cursed dream. It was a Japan before the fire-bombings, before the atomic bombs, but right on the precipice of it all, and despite the ominous undercurrent, despite horrors its military and government were wreaking on other parts of the world that would soon escalate and reach their own citizens... still very beautiful. A dream before the nightmare. Just like Nahoko: Doomed, sick, yet beautiful and dreamlike.

The penultimate and ultimate scenes:

When Jiro's final plane is being tested, and his fellow military and Mitsubishi onlookers are cheering knowing before it even lands that it is a success, everything goes numb. The joy leaves Jiro's face, the world goes silent. Jiro takes his eyes off the plane as the camera slowly pans and we see what Jiro is looking at: The country-side.

Jiro's is observing Japan, and with his plane finally completed, leaving the realm of fantasy and becoming reality, the rest of reality is finally settling in. Jiro realizes he is part of the war machine, and the Japanese country-side he's observing represents the dream of Japan, cursed by all the wreckage war will bring, for which he is partially responsible. No more so than any other cog in the war machine, but responsible nonetheless.

In what should be his happiest moment, Jiro is dumbstruck and distraught by the impending horrors of reality as he shakes the hand of the test-pilot who says to Jiro, "She flies like a dream!"

The final scene. Jiro witnesses all the death, sadness, destruction, and horror the war has brought, and he knows his planes have been a part of it. Nobody who flew those planes ever came back. He retreats into fantasy and speaks to Mr. Caproni one more time. In this fantasy, the subtext appears to be Jiro contemplating suicide, as he is in both a dream and "the land of the dead." Then Caproni directs him to turn around, and he sees Nahoko who tells him he must live. Shortly thereafter, Jiro closes his eyes, turns his head upward and whispers "thank you" twice.

Though a strong air of sadness lingers in the air with the two designers knowing their dreams came to a horrible end, their lives essentially over, Jiro and Caproni ultimately express a certain joy that they were able to live these dreams at all, cursed though they were.

How do we perceive Jiro/how does the film perceive him?

We as the audience have to ask if Jiro was noble or ultimately a naïve fool in pursuing his dreams under the circumstances they were presented to him: The love of his life (cursed with teburculosis,) and designing beautiful planes (cursed to be used in a horrific war.) Did his negligence serve to his own downfall? Partially yes. Perhaps his wife could have lived longer if their love didn't cause her to move from house, to hospital, to sanatorium so often. Or if he didn't smoke in front of her. Perhaps he could have chose not to pursue his dreams if he'd paid attention to the many signs that his country was fighting on the wrong side of history. Yet...

The film seems to imply that, foolish though he may be, almost all dreams are cursed. It is better to recognize this, yet choose to live in the moment and enjoy what you can. Just like Castorp. That man was smart enough to know he'd be dead any day now, and chose to acknowledge death but embrace life to the fullest, that wonderful cursed dream, while it still had a chance to be beautiful.

Some may say "Still immoral. Jiro should've walked away from that." Well, the war still would have happened, somebody else would have designed those planes, Japan's military still would have carried on with their atrocities, and Jiro's life would be a totally inert, disappointing waste of talent instead of one of fleeting, morally shaky beauty that was ultimately lost but still experienced. Those who focus on the morbid ends (we all just die in the end, all things are impermanent, nothing you accomplish really matters in the grand scheme) never live their dreams, but instead atrophy in a sad safe life, cursing their apprehension until death. Miyazaki appears to empathize with rather than condemn those whose hands were tied by fate but still chose to live truthfully.

Alright, that's it. What do you think? Does my interpretation make sense and isn't just the product of me grasping at straws, blinded by my bias in loving Miyazaki and wanting him to have made a film that said something more than "This guy's cool 'cause planes are cool, the rest of you can shut up"? If my concluded overall theme was the film's intent, should it have been made more obvious? Was the film irresponsible in addressing the harsh realities and Japan's misdeeds in WWII with too much subtlety and too little screen-time? Why no Swastikas? Do you consider this a good movie? Personally, it's my 4th favorite Miyazaki film, and I've seen them all. Respond if you feel like it.

POSTSCRIPT: ADDRESSING CRITICISM

I'll admit this isn't a flawless movie. Here are a few criticisms to which I'll concede:

There are Nazis in this movie. They behave like Nazis, they raid houses like Nazis, they arrest dissenters like Nazis, and they're once referred to as Nazis. But no Swastikas. Just give the people what they want and put in a Swastika.

That mother character in the beginning was pretty bland, but she's only around for the first ten minutes and barely.

The Japanese planes are never shown attacking anyone. They do get shot at, but we never see them shoot or drop any bombs. Perhaps during the scene where Honjo imagines his prototypes flying, the ones that have all their fuel stored in the wings, those planes could've been shown shooting at enemies or dropping bombs. The film does acknowledge in many words and implications that Japan is not innocent and is part of the problem, but it's all off-screen stuff.

Though the film doesn't not completely glorify Jiro Horikoshi to heroic status, certain scenes establishing that he's a good person could've been toned down. Carrying that woman on his back during the earthquake is understandable. It's not inconsistent with his introvert dreamer nature to help out somebody he's already come to know. That being said, having a complete stranger say to a friend about Jiro, "What a great guy. Who was that?" is admittedly egregious. The audience should decide that for themselves and not be told to like him. There's also the scene where he rescues some kid from bullies. It's bad writing, and critics are free to use that to their defense.

In addition, perhaps him offering spongecake to those poor children (who reject it) might've been a step too far as well. Jiro is often shown as being mostly unconscious of the world's problems. He hears about them, then goes on and thinks about his dreams again. So this instance might be inconsistent with his character, could be written in just to make him a good guy.

In the film's defense: But consider this! These three overtly selfless acts happen earlier on in the movie. Perhaps this is to show that Jiro is capable of caring about those around him, but when the world's problems escalate to bigger things (the Nazis, war, fascism, secret police, bombs, foreign and domestic blood on your hands,) he shuts them out. They seem so insurmountable, so unable to be dealt with by one human that they drift from his mind, and only occasionally haunt him in ominous fantasies.

After proposing to Nahoko, Castorp is happy but reminds Jiro their summer love is seasonal and won't last. (Translation: Japan is on the precipice of destruction as comeuppance for its own arrogance, as he mentioned before.) Jiro says to this, "I don't believe that." He's been informed of the world's horrors, but focuses on his dreams. Unlike three hungry kids, a thirsty injured woman, a bullied classmate, or Nahoko needing his company, these bigger problems are outside of his control. This is not classic hero attitude.

"They made up that love story clearly just to make him a sympathetic likeable character!" Jiro is enough of a likeable character in his passion, his fantasies, his relationship with Honjo, and his relationship with everyone else at Mitsubishi. He's even likeable in how his head is always in the clouds. Film-going audiences love seeing hard-at-work introverted geniuses who are a little strange but are miles ahead of everyone else and thus gain their approval. Again, that love story was inserted as a very clever parallel to the engineer story and to flesh out the film and add emotion.

Lastly, recognize that the real Jiro Horikoshi wasn't anywhere close to WWII's greatest monster. Yes, he was guilty of designing the planes that went on to bomb Pearl Harbor. As horrible as that is, whether or not he was a morally questionable hopeless dreamer born in Japan at the wrong time for making guilt-free planes, or a morally questionable man using the war as an opportunity to have funding for his grand designs is actually a very thin line. This isn't black and white. That the film chose the more positive angle in its portrayal of the story of "an individual's aspirations when caught up in forces outside of an individual's control" (thanks Lordhadri) and used a ficitonalized real-life person to do it shouldn't arouse so much hatred.

MORAL RAMBLINGS

Life is complicated, war is complicated, people are complicated, but judgement always seems so simple and absolute. The Wind Rises addresses these complexities, but the critics seem to let their biases and expectations of what a WWII movie should be about get in the way of clear-mindedness. They were too busy looking for something more obvious that they missed all the subtle ways in which the dreadful realities of war and Jiro's/Japan's decisions were addressed.

I love this film even more every time I see it, yet the next day my doubts are only increased. Am I wrong for empathizing with Jiro's dilemma? Did this film trick me by being so good? Did that vitriolic Village Voice reviewer resist being tricked, or did she just miss the point of it and angrily typed something out based on her first impression? (Obviously I disagree with her that this film white-washes Japanese history and that it's the responsibility of the film to not just have characters allude to Japanese atrocities, but to actually show the rape of Nanking, show Jiro Horikoshi reading about it in the paper, and then show him have a Shinji Ikari-esque existential crisis. Too obvious.)

Subtlety went over people's heads because we don't expect moral subtlety from Miyazaki films. We expect amazing feel-good movies that have a message, but usually the kind everyone can agree on. On the surface, the film rings of typical Miyazaki. It's beautiful, some of the characters are almost unrealistically good-natured, Jiro's boss is cartoonishly funny, Caproni is delightful in his movements. That beauty can anger some people once they realize what the film's about.

Normally I'd just tell you it's a character study, that the film is neutral regarding Jiro and just wants to show us exactly what kind of person would neglect the world so much as to focus only on his art and choose not to think about what it will be used for, despite the urgings of his subconscious to confront it (remember, Caproni is not actually there.) But I'm pretty sure, based on its tone and Nahoko's unconditional love, the film wants to see if we can empathize with him. And I say the film, and not Miyazaki himself. I know Miyazaki is divided on Jiro. In the first draft of the film, Jiro goes through with his suicide. While drawing the key frames for the final scene, Miyazaki had a change of heart and decided to let him live.

Do we let him live? Do we abide by this concept: The wind is rising (the world is changing for the worse,) we must try to live (hang on to what's dear,) even when the latter part of that sentence could make you complicit in crimes against humanity? To a lesser degree, how could any artist shut out the world and commit his/herself to the cultivation of beauty when their lives could be put to a better practical use of somehow helping to stop the various atrocities that perpetuate themselves each day, or help out the impoverished and starving in a practical way? How could you compose a major-key symphony when humans continue to blow each other to bits, how could you devote your life to painting simple landscapes when the shoes you wear were made by children in sweatshops? How could you be Tchaikovsky in a reality that demands Schoenberg?

I'm not deflecting the initial question by posing these other ones. I'm trying to demonstrate how the film's basic moral question can persist beyond its context, how it can function as a comment on artistry in general. Perhaps these works of beauty are one of the few things to be proud of in a world of misery and death. Perhaps they're a waste of time. Screw designing the pyramids, focus instead on freeing the slaves cursed to forever build them.

The Wind Rises recognizes how complex of an issue this is. Jiro has his Oppenheimer "I am become Death, destroyer of worlds" moments, he just never articulates them verbally. The film recognizes Jiro has made a huge mistake, even if it seems to empathize with him and tell him to just be glad he was ever able to experience such beauty instead of saying "thou have sinned and shall pay the price" like we want it to. Then again, the film didn't say that. Caproni, an expression of Jiro's subconscious, did. I'd like to think this film does not beguile. I believe it wants to present this question to you and see whether you resort to a quick judgement or a difficult revealing analysis of your own values. I have analyzed mine, and I still have doubts about empathizing with Jiro. As an artist, I imagine I always will.

Final score: 93/100. A brilliant film. What a way to go out.