The first time I ever saw Howl’s Moving Castle, I was entranced. I must have been around 10 or 11, on a manic Studio Ghibli marathon in the middle of the night. I fell in love with the vivid colours and warm characters. I fell in love with this entire fantasy world filled with witches and portals and eclectic characters.
Growing up, I found myself re–watching Howl’s Moving Castle almost religiously. Throughout my changes and developments, I always found time to turn off the lights and curl up in my Jacob-from-Twilight blanket for a re–run. Now, I am approaching 20, and I guess this is the age when I am meant to analyze the choices I make in life. So why is it that, despite being a cinema major who is exposed to a vast array of films every week, I am so drawn to this particular film?
I can only theorize that it’s because I wish to seek comfort. There is something about this movie that exists for me as a reminder of my childhood and my imagination. Escaping into the realm of this film for two hours reminds me of all of the things I have held dear since I was a child. As a kid, I took shelter in my public library. My main exercise came from checking out 50 books (the library limit) every few weeks, carrying them back to my room, and devouring them. I made sense of my reality through the women whose thoughts I briefly inhabited, through the enigma of mystical lands, through the forbidden relationships that I witnessed blossoming on pages. Sometimes, I feel as if I have grown up backward—I used to be so confident, so devoted to my imagination, so convinced that books and movies and art were the answer for everything.
Now, as with so many of my friends, I find it difficult to uncover these truths. I exist in a digital age that elevates the concept of the “instant.” Everything happens so fast now, in a chaotic whirlwind that doesn’t really allow you to slow down. My thoughts are flicking back and forth and left and right and I am bombarded with this heavy sense of helplessness. I can no longer categorize elements of the world into clear-cut boxes. I can no longer tell if I am the heroine of my own story.
Sometimes, I will read things that I have written in old journals. In these, my writing is always so frantic. In these, I am filled to the brim with a sense of adventure and a desire to love and be loved. I read these journals and am reminded of the safety of my childhood home and the music I used to listen to within those walls. I remember the first book that ever made me cry, Awake and Dreaming by Kit Pearson. I still have a copy of it on my nightstand. Somewhere along the way, I inscribed the front page with a phrase: “this is where it all began.”
In Howl’s Moving Castle, Howl gives his heart to a mystical fire demon. In Mena’s Ongoing Story, I have put my heart into the art that has meant the most to me. It is not an act of pure nostalgia, but rather a method of self-rejuvenation. Remembering the stories that gave me a sense of euphoria as a child helps me to regain a piece of that euphoria as an adult.
My childhood best friend lived across the street from me, and one time she saw me from across the street, in my room, dancing around and head-banging to Three Days Grace. It makes me smile to remember a tiny version of myself frantically dancing (if you can even call it that). In the not-so-critically-acclaimed sequel to Twilight, New Moon, I was exposed to the sad boy music of Death Cab for Cutie for the first time. It makes me laugh to remember how I would listen to these songs about breakups and death and just stare out my window, inventing a fake world in which I was experiencing these tragedies. Through the pages of my old diaries, I wrote strangely mature thoughts about how confident and strong I felt in this world. It makes me cry to think about that strength and where it has gone.
I am learning that it’s necessary to disconnect and take time off to replenish myself. To re-read super cheesy poems that I wrote in my childhood and to mull over the art that made my heart bloom. To search for my old playlists and to pay attention to the writings in the margins of my favourite books. To order lots of junk food, turn off the lights, and fall asleep at the end of Howl’s two-hour runtime. To dream of nothing but vibrant colours in faraway lands that ignite my imagination and make me feel safe and utterly invincible.
