'The Imaginary' Review: A Soulful and Sincere Studio Ghibli Medley
Life is a funny thing. We don’t get to choose the time or place of our arrival or our departure for that matter. Much of our existence is shaped by the era we inhabit, with each generation facing its unique struggles. As temporary custodians of this planet, we navigate a world that is constantly evolving, often feeling overwhelmed by the events that unfold around us; hopeless in what is, and scared of the unknown. Every person who has ever existed is experiencing life for the very first time, and will only experience it once because it is finite, and that finite amount of time, however long it is, is the driving force behind our actions. How do we embrace the inevitable? How can we dream of a fantastical utopia, when the path ahead is shrouded in darkness? The irony of me saying all of that is that that’s not how each of us entered this world. As children, we possess an unparalleled sense of hope and optimism. We see the world as a beautiful place, an oasis of possibilities, a chance to imagine the impossible, and where even the harshest of life’s cruelties can be transformed into something wonderful. It’s only once we grow up, that we allow that same cruelty to penetrate our minds, consume our thoughts, and dictate our actions. Some would say it’s inevitable, that the passage of time forces us to come to terms with the reality of what is, that things can’t get better because they’ve always been the way they are. However, by snuffing out the inner child you once were, you rob yourself of life’s greatest joy and the capacity to change the nature of your reality: freedom of expression. I know it’s perhaps not the most profound observation, that we jaded adults need to reconnect with our inner child, but that doesn’t make it any less true. And while Studio Ponoc gets spirited away with its unrefined Ghibli-esque musings, The Imaginary manages to do so with sincerity making for a much-needed reminder of the necessity of creativity during a time when things seem especially bleak.
From Studio Ghibli alums Yoshiyuki Momose, a renowned animator turned director with a pedigree that includes work on classics like Spirited Away, and writer/producer Yoshiaki Nishimura, The Imaginary is an adaptation of A.F. Harrold’s award-winning novel of the same name. It follows young Amanda and her invisible companion, Rudger. Born from Amanda's imagination, Rudger is her other half, her best friend as the two embark on thrilling adventures within Amanda’s mind. The duo share a poignant promise: "Whatever happens, never disappear, protect each other, and never cry," a promise that takes on new meaning as the events of the film unfold. Their bond is tested when a tragedy befalls them severing Rudger from Amanda as the invisible boy finds himself alone in The Town of Imaginaries, a haven for forgotten imaginary friends. Here, he faces a formidable and enigmatic threat that challenges the very fabric of his existence.
While watching Studio Ponoc's soulful The Imaginary, I couldn't help but be struck by the climactic exchange from Greta Gerwig's Barbie between Barbie and her creator, Ruth. During the climax, Ruth warns Barbie that, “Humans have only one ending, ideas are forever.” To which an existential Margot Robbie comes to the beautifully melancholic realization that, "I want to be a part of the people that make meaning. Not the thing that's made. I want to do the imagining. I don't wanna be the idea." The Imaginary takes this mediation and expands on it further, positing that unbridled creativity and expression aren't enough. Alone, it's largely ineffective. Eternal, but without meaning. It's people who give it meaning. Whether it's through reclamation, catharsis, identity, love, or loss. We manifest new ideas and remix old ones as a way to express ourselves reconnecting with the hopeful optimism we once had as a child. An unabashed self-assuredness whose rays become clouded by the bleakness of this world. Safe havens aren't safe anymore, oppressive forces seek to strip you of the very things that make you, you. We're forced to grow up fast so why bother hoping at all? But as Rudger learns, "It doesn't matter if it's true or not. In life, it's worth believing what one wishes to believe. All that matters is the story you believe." While Amanda may have tucked Rudger away in a closet - a safe, yet solitary confinement to express freely and privately - they both come to realize that it's simply not enough to exist inside of the closet because of the realities of the outside world, they need to be open.
The Imaginary intricately weaves together themes of loss and the transformative healing power of imagination. Amanda’s creation of Rudger is a poignant response to the pain of a childhood tragedy, highlighting how art and imagination can serve as cathartic outlets. Not only that, but they’re a form of expression that reveals more about the personhood and identity of the creative than perhaps exists on the surface. Imaginaries represent more than just companions; they are manifestations of repressed emotions and unspoken truths, truths we acknowledge as children, but bury away as adults. Reality is a matter of perspective, it is what we choose to make it and how we choose to live. Its confines and rules are constructs that beg to be challenged or torn down.
The antagonist, Mr. Bunting, is incapable of challenging such constructs. He’s shaped by fear and loss. It’s frivolous to imagine a reality different from the one we exist in. He is the embodiment of cynicism that overtakes adults. Accompanied by a dark, rotting, husk of an imaginary, Mr. Bunting consumes the imaginaries of others, sniffing out the strongest among them to fuel his insatiable appetite forcing children to confront harsh realities of the world. To him, their creativity is fuel for the machine, their truth something to consume which carries added weight during a time when art is becoming increasingly more devalued in the face of AI. His character, steeped in nihilism and a fear of being forgotten serves as a stark contrast to the hopeful spirit of Rudger and Amanda. Bunting’s actions are driven by his struggle to come to terms with his own mortality and the devastation he has witnessed. He’s wandered the face of the earth for eons scavenging and surviving, not living. This struggle is poignantly depicted through scenes where he oppressively wields the power of imagination, highlighting the void that’s consumed him as a result of succumbing to despair. The irony is his seemingly objective worldview is actually subjective and he’s merely choosing to live his life that way and then wondering why he doesn’t possess the same spirit as those who he’s forced to consume. He’s closeted in more ways than one - expression, happiness, fear - and would rather appropriate those feelings from those that, in his eyes, don’t need it, nor understand what to do with it because they’re young and foolish, rather than look inward. It’s only once he looks inward that he feels for a fleeting moment before being forgotten.
Towards the beginning of the film, Mr. Bunting enters Lizzie's bookshop following the scent of Amanda's imaginary. After locking eyes with Amanda and Rudger, he begins to show himself out, but not before picking up a book and reciting the words, "The old world is dying, the new one is struggling to be born. In the interregnum between light and darkness," he trails off, but not before asking, "what is it that is born?" A curious quote, but one that paints a clear picture of Bunting from the onset through the answer to his question: monsters. The quote is taken from Antonio Gramsci’s reflection on interregnum while imprisoned by Mussolini in 1930. Interregnum, being the ancient Roman term for the moment of legal and political in-betweenness that followed the death of the sovereign and preceded the enthronement of his successor, is repurposed by Gramsci to describe the crisis leading to the rise of Fascism during WWII. This is exactly how Bunting views the current state of the world, leading to his cynical worldview and hunger for foolish optimism. Existing is survival, and survival requires a rejection of self and humanity to endure. In so doing, we become...monsters. Bunting becomes the monster.
"Indeed it is difficult to be forgotten, but it is something that will happen to us all sooner or later," an imaginary Cat named Zinzan says to Rudger. How will we brave this reality? Writer/producer Yoshiaki Nishimura submits that “hope springs eternal from the rekindling of the bond between the boundless imagination of youth and childhood memories etched within adults. Together, these intertwined forces stand poised to confront the specters of reality and fear.” We only become forgotten when our memory fades from those we have met and will never meet. So long as the spirit of our being remains and ignites a spark in others, we will never truly die.
It's almost the inverse of Peter Pan and Neverland. Rather than exploring the refusal to grow up, stay a child, and live in paradise forever, The Imaginary explores meeting the world where it’s at with the optimism of your youth. Finding a way to come into maturity, which includes finding ways to freely express yourself without the crutch of an imaginary friend, but never forgetting the lessons they taught you along the way. The imaginary friend is there to remind you of your limitless potential and sense of self. As you grow older, you move on from the friend itself, but uncover ways to employ that expression at your will. Almost like training wheels. An outlet for that potential until we can harness it/engage with it as an adult. These ideas beautifully dovetail into the approach to the film's breathtaking visuals.
It’s through the stunning artistry of their hand-drawn animation that Studio Ponoc truly shines as the heir to Studio Ghibli. Director Momose and the rest of the team uncovered new ways to express the three-dimensionality of the characters through hand-drawn techniques without compromising the integrity of the image or conforming to the domineering status quo of 3D computer-generated animation. The images have depth, fluidity, emotion, and most importantly, human expression. That’s not to say the filmmakers actively protested the use of 3D techniques, like Ghibli, Ponoc is certainly unafraid of the technological advancements afforded to them by 3D animation. They just finding ways to employ those advancements that suit them. It’s aptly, the art of the unseen. It's a shame this won't be widely seen on a big screen because it deserves to be experienced that way.
Momose instructed the texture and lighting artists at Les Films du Poisson Rouge to “express freely;” a directive that not only speaks to the heart of The Imaginary but is something sorely lacking from modern animated films. The lack of human touch; the ability to feel the hands of every artist that lent their creativity to the project in every frame. When the traditionally unseen artist becomes visible to the viewer as if reaching out to touch their very soul. That's what Momose and the rest of the team have accomplished here with The Imaginary. A reminder that the purest expression comes from the very things that make us human. It's a love of the craft that gives birth to genuine art. An extension from the hands of people in a world that increasingly devalues the human element of creativity. It's nothing more than content, something to be consumed, so why give a shit? This is precisely the attitude Momose is fighting against and something brilliantly reflected in our primary antagonist, Mr. Bunting.
At times, The Imaginary can feel a bit like a Studio Ghibli medley. There’s a familiarity in its themes and visual style that, while comforting, occasionally feels derivative while missing the focus Miyazaki brings to his films. For a film about imagination, there are moments where I wished the exploration of the Imaginary worlds were more expansive. The glimpses we get are captivating but are ultimately vignettes that feel more like world-building detours to pad the runtime than any meaningful exploration of the central ideas and characters. Additionally, the film undoubtedly invites a queer reading yet never fully commits, causing the otherwise inspired subtext to feel more like an unintentional byproduct rather than a central focus. This isn’t necessarily a dealbreaker, but it does make the narrative feel more generic. A more pronounced embrace of its queerness could have added a layer of complexity and richness to the story.
In the end, The Imaginary is a celebration of unbridled free expression. Whether through the pure imagination of a child or the nuanced creativity of an adult, the film champions the idea that art and imagination are vital to enduring the human experience. Director Momose and his team have crafted a film that is not simply a feast on the eyes, but emotionally resonant. In the film, imaginaries are born from children, they are their best friends. Their purpose, as one imaginary puts it, is to "make humans and their world more beautiful." The world becomes less beautiful when we're stripped of the imagination that pushes us forward. We're alive for a brief moment and, therefore, owe it to ourselves and the rest of the unseen to come out of it, expressing ourselves freely and openly. It's never easy, but as Rudger says, "It's our struggle for all of those not seen." Perhaps by being seen, by being the person who makes meaning, others will find their own.