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Rating: [Contains plot spoilers]
Nothing could be more mistaken than interpreting Takahata's latest work through the lens of Western morals and philosophy. By doing so, it might appear that the princess's story ends badly, with her forced return to the Moon. But the fairy tale on which the film is based is ancient and deeply imbued with Eastern values. In this sense, the entire story might be read in a Taoist light, as a moral tale illustrating a concept closely related to the Tao.
It's in the final minutes of the film that the key to understanding emerges, as the princess realizes that life is both joy and pain, and she should have accepted both because the alternative is non-life, the oblivion of returning to the Moon.
The film is particularly difficult to interpret for this reason: everything shown for nearly two hours is contradicted by a few fleeting words in the finale. It is there that the princess understands her mistake, which was to lament her condition to the point of wishing to return to the Moon, essentially the fairy tale equivalent of preferring death to a difficult life. Yet for long stretches, she endured patiently, but just one lapse into despair was enough to shatter the Tao's balance. Life must be embraced in all its aspects; one cannot hope for an existence of pure joy.
From this philosophical and religious standpoint, the film is anything but clear-cut: the ending could also be read antithetically, where the regal figure who comes to take the princess on a cloud might be interpreted as a sort of Buddha. In this case, the entire existential parable of the young woman could be seen as an example of how life progressively tarnishes, even the purest of souls. Specifically, the princess's blemish would be her inability to love, to not "become property" of anyone, not even the emperor.
But the film is much more than that. Putting symbolic readings aside, the richness of content and ideas is evident. First and foremost, we have a special coming-of-age story, portraying all the vital steps from birth to maturity with an enchanting sensitivity. There is also an entire familial dimension where the father represents the most myopic ambition, unable to understand his daughter's feelings, focused only on receiving increasingly higher honors. But his intentions are not malicious; they stem from naivety and too much love for his daughter. His desire to ensure the princess receives the life she deserves is so strong and impulsive that it renders him incapable of sensibly comprehending any situation. The opposing and complementary figure (again, a touch of Tao here) is the mother, who understands and tries to give vent to the adopted daughter's emotions.
The two parental profiles are echoed in other opposing pairs: the city versus the countryside, the dynamic life against the absurd immobility of a lady-in-waiting, and then the princess's moments of rebellion against her phases of total acceptance of imposed norms. I believe all these contrasts are resolved in one of the protagonist's final phrases, when she acknowledges that life is joy and pain. For this reason, I tend to favor a Taoist interpretation of the tale, even though its origins are Japanese rather than Chinese.
In short, a truly ambitious film, which aesthetically exploits every element at play impeccably. The figurative style is bare, essential, harking back to an ancient, sacred artistic simplicity. The stylized forms contribute to giving the narrative a legendary and allegorical breadth. The faces are not overly characterized because they serve as examples relatable to anyone's life.
The music and songs enchant, offering a fascinating insight into this ancient Japanese society: the rigor of education also manifests in the art of masterfully playing instruments. In short, life in the capital is not just a suffering constraint. The cherry tree blossoms even there. Yet, the dominant perspective is a critical reading of this ancient world, especially through the figures of the five suitors vying for the young woman's hand. But even in that case, it does not fall into manichaeism: some are dishonest, but others possess a pure heart and genuinely attempt the challenges set before them.
The film is deliberately verbose, recalling its ancient origins through some characters' ostentatiously elaborate language. But when it is necessary to strike the viewer, the princess knows how to use the right words that touch the heart directly. Yes, some moments are truly touching. Takahata knows how to move us; he is a master at enchanting audiences with simple elements and then making them suffer through the pain of unblemished characters (Grave of the Fireflies). Here, the pain is metaphysical, the ontological absence of the possibility of existing as we understand it. The princess, distancing herself on the lunar clouds, no longer feels pain, but her face is petrified in the absence of emotions, and thus also in the absence of joy that, albeit briefly, was always an open possibility during her earthly life.
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