Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984)

Conversely, the proud, hardhearted and self-absorbed worsen the devastation and risk causing further destruction. Chief among these characters is Kushana, princess of Tolmekia (Uma Thurman), whose style of leadership is the polar opposite of Nausicaä’s, as one of the Valley people notes. Kushana’s talk and behavior are a disturbingly clear echo of real-world tyrants and political bullies: standing amid the murder, robbery, and general destruction wreaked by her soldiers, she proclaims that her mission is one of peace, guaranteed to bring power and freedom to all who follow her. A lone voice protests the deadly danger that her plans involve; that voice is soon lost in the chaos, but the listeners later have cause to remember the warning.

Yet even characters who decry the Tolmekians’ cruelty aren’t necessarily innocent of comparable sins, notably perpetrating tremendous violence “for the good of the planet.” Here the film speaks especially to our time, which so often justifies horrors — the slaughter of the innocent, or destruction of what matters to them, or indifference to their needs — in the name of some future good so great that everything must be sacrificed to it. The politics involved here get a little confusing sometimes (who’s attacking whom? why again? etc.), but Miyazaki never lets us forget the stakes. The larger nations around the Valley, caught up in their mutual hatred and their own stubborn convictions about how to fix everything, threaten to destroy Nausicaä’s tiny homeland in their mad schemes and quarrels.

Faced with these nightmares, Nausicaä thrusts herself like Don Quixote’s spear against the windmill of her world’s brutality. Early on, in a terrible moment of crisis, she is briefly overcome with rage; after that she pours her heart and soul into her cry, “All this killing must stop!” She rushes to rescue anyone in trouble, refuses to leave anyone in need, and may threaten with a gun, but never actually shoots a person. During an airship fight, she climbs on top of a ship, attempting — with some success — to use herself as a human shield. Amid a world torn by prejudice and enmities, she extends kindness to people of any and all nations, ultimately including those who have wronged her. She defends her people with all the zeal of her passionate spirit, but refuses to hate those who have mistreated or threatened them.

The contrast between Nausicaä’s way and that of most other people extends to encounters with the giant insects, too. This isn’t necessarily anyone’s fault; almost all humans quite reasonably regard these creatures as terrors to be avoided at all cost. If an insect’s anger is roused — especially if it’s an Ohmu (rhymes with home), the largest and predominant species — its onslaught is practically unstoppable. Nausicaä, however, has a mysterious ability to understand the insects and to make them understand her. She can not only placate them and interact peacefully with them, but is able to intuit their perspective and see a better side to them.

Seeing through Nausicaä’s eyes, the audience learns some intriguing things about the Ohmu as well. They seem almost like representatives of nature: very dangerous and not to be trifled with, but not evil, deserving of respect, and capable of great benevolence too. (Does Miyazaki’s Shinto/animist heritage influence his perspective here? Likely, but there’s nothing explicitly pagan.) In fact, a second-act climactic revelation shows the Ohmu pretty clearly as guardians of the earth, though the reason for this makes the environmentalism a little too obvious.

At another point, the creatures are said to “reflect the anger of the earth,” when, in response to the foolhardy brutality of a few humans, they move to inflict a ferocious judgment on guilty and innocent alike. Here, however, a higher, more grace-informed perspective intervenes, overruling this merciless justice by means of a redemptive sacrifice. This triumph of mercy through self-gift is a crucial nuance, making clear that Miyazaki’s environmental concerns are not at odds with his humanism. It could also be seen as a Christian element in the story, or at least one eminently agreeable to a Christian worldview.

In fairness, Nausicaä’s world isn’t merely dangerous or austere; it’s also fascinating and beautiful. Its emotional heart is the serene charm of the Valley of the Wind, where the pleasant community lives in a land of green fields, luscious crops, and stone houses and windmills. The most fantastic visual feats, though, appear in the exotic splendor of the jungle. Poisonous but magical, the jungle is a world unto itself, popping with color and teeming with flora and fauna like nothing ever imagined or drawn. Protected by an air-filtering mask and her powers, Nausicaä explores its depths at leisure, discovering things and learning secrets that no one else dares seek.

By now, I think nearly everything I’ve said adds up to one statement: beneath its explosively inventive trappings, Nausicaä’s world is our world. It’s turbulent, often heartbreaking, and sometimes apparently hopeless, but also beautiful and brightened with virtue and grace. There’s never any shortage of loss and devastation, but we can worsen it or reduce it, sometimes dramatically. Those with special gifts must use them responsibly, as Nausicaä does hers, but ultimately her greatest strengths are those within anyone’s reach — courage, selflessness, compassion and perseverance. And if we do have the inner strength to give ourselves to creating and restoring rather than destroying, we may be rewarded with signs like this movie’s final shot, modest but charged with significance, an image of life renewed and returning. It’s not a flawless film, but for the past ten years or so, it’s repeatedly left me with a little more wonder at life, a little more of an eye for what might be, and a little more courage and hope in my own soul.