Howl's Moving Castle

Hayao Miyazaki’s Howl’s Moving Castle is a warm, funny fantasy that makes an unusually persuasive case for kindness, even when its storytelling becomes difficult to follow. Adapted from Diana Wynne Jones’s novel, it gives magic, romance and war considerable space in the same adventure. The mix can be awkward. But Miyazaki’s interest in how people care for one another makes the confusion worth tolerating.

The castle earns its place in the title. We laughed at its clanking progress, then felt an unreasonable affection for it; the effort involved in getting a building to walk is funny in itself. Atsushi Okui’s cinematography lets us take in the intricate shape without losing the pleasure of seeing the whole thing move. The detail never stops it being readable. It is easy to imagine a version of this film in which the building overwhelms every human character.

Sophie prevents that. Chieko Baisho gives her a firmness that keeps the tenderness from becoming sugary, while Takuya Kimura’s Howl benefits from that steadying presence. We are invited to be interested in people who are not always admirable or easy company. The performances allow that, rather than treating every awkward quality as something to be tidied away. Their affection feels convincing because there is room for irritation too.

Miyazaki also gives the threat of war room to disturb the fairy tale. It makes the emphasis on care feel necessary rather than merely nice, and prevents the fantasy from becoming a succession of decorative wonders. There is nothing complicated about the film’s dislike of cruelty. Its gentleness works because the danger is allowed to remain frightening.

The complication comes in Miyazaki’s screenplay, where the magical business becomes harder to follow than it needs to be. A fairytale can ask us to accept the impossible without explaining every spell, but we still need to understand why one event leads to another. At points, that connection is weak. Takeshi Seyama’s editing keeps things moving, then hurries material that needed a little more room, leaving the later stretch congested.

Joe Hisaishi’s music is a large part of the pleasure. It gives the romance space to be openly felt, without making every tender moment sound like an instruction. There is a welcome confidence in letting the music be warm. Alongside the castle’s ungainly movement, it helps the film feel inviting rather than overawed by its own inventions.

Spirited Away is the comparison that makes the weaknesses easiest to see: that film’s strangeness feels more securely held together. Yet measuring every Miyazaki fantasy against it risks overlooking what this one does well. Few fantasy adventures make kindness so interesting without turning their characters into examples of good behaviour. Here, the humour stops the tenderness becoming too much, and neither feels grudgingly added for the sake of the audience.

At 119 minutes, it asks for some patience with the way its story is arranged. We recommend it for the castle, the humour and the tenderness, with a warning that its magical rules will not satisfy anyone who likes every question answered. The U certificate should not be mistaken for simple storytelling. Small children may need help with the plot; the adults may want to compare notes as well.