What Themes Are Prevalent In Makoto Shinkai'S Films?

One of the most openly childlike films ever made, Ponyo is the kind of movie I want to watch on a sleepy weekend morning, all wrapped up in a blanket with tea. The heart of the movie is the very pure relationship between Ponyo and Sōsuke, and it is expressed not through grand declarations of love, but through the concrete actions of saving each other’s lives, sharing food, and trusting each other. The movie expresses a profound theme of simple, grounding love that makes the chaotic world around us feel steady. On the surface, Ponyo is a simple story about a fish-like creature who wants to become human, but it is also a deeply rich exploration of the theme of identity and transformation. Ponyo wants to become human not because she wants to rebel against her father, but because she is trying to figure out who she is. Along the way, the film raises many questions about the nature of autonomy, and how we choose our own paths in life. One of the things that really resonates with me is the balance of the movie: between the sea and the land, magic and reality, childhood and adulthood. It’s interesting to see that Fujimoto has a ‘fear’ of humans, and a pretty typical Miyazaki anxiety about the environmental consequences of human actions and the easily-tipped-over eco-system. But Ponyo’s huge transformation of the tides to save her dad has so much resonance as to how small an action can have HUGE consequences, that it never feels like the movie is lecturing you about this. Rather, it is a wonder to behold, an alive, ancient, sometimes mischievous, and mostly kind and gentle ocean. And the way the rest of the family is portrayed as well, in relation to Sōsuke and Ponyo is also really wonderful. The calm, practical and kind Lisa is a great example of the restorative powers of care and trust, showing how parents and guardians can model the best of behavior to their children in the simplest way. However, it is the more recent repeat viewings that have revealed further depths to the film. Firstly, the emotional, true-to-life depiction of the relationship between Ponyo and Sōsuke is amazing, as is the way the film champions simple, grounding love. Secondly, there is the outstanding way in which adult responsibility is balanced against the magic of the sea. This must be the way that all environmentally aware films should be – present in the story, yet never didactic or preachy. In addition, one cannot fail to be struck by the sense of family and care that is at the heart of the film. The simple, selfless love that Sōsuke’s mother, Lisa, shows to her son and to Ponyo is wonderful, as is the depiction of responsible, compassionate adult behavior. As a result, this is a film in which parents and other adult family members are positively represented. The way in which Ponyo’s desire to become human leads to huge environmental problems also adds depth to the film and serves as a powerful warning about the potential consequences of human actions.

A theme of translation is at work in this novel. The protagonist, Kitoto, is a translator between worlds: between the masses and the elite; between the magical world and the ‘real’ one; between his past self and his present ‘legend’. Translation here becomes a central motif of the novel as Kitoto grapples to make the concerns of the peasants heard by the royal elite and to make sense of the mystical menaces threatening his old friends in terms that they can understand. ‘Might’ here is not about violence; rather it is about being able to bridge the gulf between different worlds of experience and of power. A conduit not a hammer.

‘M Is for Mama’ is unusual in that it tries to make parenting look good, whilst at the same time trying to find the wonder in it. The themes of ‘competing priorities’ and ‘the art of surrender’ particularly hit home. Who hasn’t folded washing only to have their toddler ask to go and look at the stars minutes later? There are also plenty of ‘me too!’ moments, such as the one where the mother loses her temper and then feels terrible, and the odd sense of pride when your toddler finally stops biting. But what the book does best is to make you feel less alone in the beautiful struggle that is parenting.

The Fourteenth Goldfish is a story at its soul about childhood and its complexities and the consequences of adulthood. Ellie’s grandpa, having been turned into a teenager by science, becomes the focal point of an existential crisis that Ellie must face. Grandpa’s obsession with reversing his aging process leads Ellie to a realization that her grandfather’s search for eternal life may mean missing out on the best part of life right now. What made me laugh in this book was Grandpa’s grumpy-genius shtick. I never knew that a Nobel laureate could throw a fit about the quality of the institutional food served in a university. But in the midst of much humor, there is also much tenderness. Ellie has to learn Science with the same sense of wonder as ‘what if’ as she does with awe and responsibility. She’s not given any easy answers, and the questions that are posed are allowed to keep swimming, much like the Fourteenth Goldfish.

I get reading “Hello, Universe” as a map to the many emotional struggles of growing up as a kid. Control is an illusion that the universe likes to tear apart. This book has a very similar theme to that, in that the main character, Virgil, plans his life to be as attention-free as possible. However, a tiny guru-like girl named Kaori and a new classmate of his, Chet, who enjoys playing pranks on people, throw a wrench into his plans for the worst possible day of his life. His worst day of all time turns out to be the day he is seen by the people he is trying to avoid. The symbols in the book are really powerful as well. For example, the dark well of the disaster is a good example of the kind of self-doubt that Virgil has been dealing with. Also, in contrast to making others seem powerless, Valencia’s hearing aids are a symbol of her strength in the story. And there are moments of pure silence that are more powerful than anything else in the book. For example, the moment when Kaori admits she doesn’t know everything and the brief conversation that Virgil has with Lola where she says “Stories are light.” It makes me want to go back and read it again in order to catch all of the different ways that every character is struggling with the same fears and hopes and that they are all intertwined like vines.

I first stumbled upon 'The Gadfly' during a phase where I was voraciously consuming classic revolutionary literature, and wow, did it leave a mark. At its core, the novel grapples with the tension between personal loyalty and ideological conviction. Arthur Burton’s transformation into the biting, sarcastic Gadfly mirrors the brutal cost of betrayal—both by others and by one’s own ideals. The scenes where he confronts his former mentor, Father Montanelli, are heart-wrenching; they force you to question whether love can ever outweigh duty. What’s equally fascinating is how Ethel Lilian Voynich weaves in themes of sacrifice. The Gadfly’s defiance isn’t just political—it’s almost theatrical, a performance of suffering to expose the hypocrisy of authority. The ending, where he refuses to show pain during his execution, cements the idea that true rebellion is as much about endurance as it is about action. It’s a book that lingers, like a sting you can’t shake off.

A children’s manifesto – ‘I Like Myself!’ is a joyful celebration of kid-sized self-empowerment. Written and illustrated to convey unshakeable self-love via some very unusual and humorous differences (covering yourself in spots, having a warthog’s nose for example), this charming little book asks kids to declare their love of all things ‘me’. This is so much more than accepting differences; it’s actively celebrating them in an enthusiastic manner. The wild, exciting, often-chaotic world of illustrations beautifully mirrors that of a kid’s imagination, which lends credence to the book’s delightfully natural message of confidence – and of learning how to tap into it – via laughter.

The major themes in 'Fullmetal Alchemist' are the sacrifice, redemption and the complexity of human relations. It is amazing to see how the consequences of the alchemical actions of the two Elric brothers lead to their personal struggles. The biggest of these consequences is the sacrifice that has to be made for ambition. Not every action that is intended to bring about positive results will end up that way. What one wants to achieve is not all that matters, the things one has to give up on the way are important too. In addition to this, the movie portrays love, particularly familial love, in a positive light and shows the lengths that the two Elric brothers go to in order to be with each other. It highlights the importance of human connection and the struggles that come with it, something that everyone can relate to. The philosophical themes behind ‘Fullmetal Alchemist’ lead to a deep exploration of humanity and what it means to exist, leaving viewers with a lasting impression of the movie.

However it is said that writing found Murakami, he said that the baseball game story was easily found. But what interests me more is how his way of life has nurtured his work. His years spent running a jazz bar must have been like fieldwork where he observed the many idiosyncrasies of human behavior. A drunk salaryman humming ‘My Funny Valentine’ down a street or a couple having a row in a coffee shop, these were all stored up like colors. The process of translating works of Western literature, particularly works by such authors as Salinger, has helped Murakami develop his unique writing style. Perhaps this is why so many of his main characters are drawn to ‘The Beatles’ or Listens-to-Gatsby, as he calls them. Their influences are woven into the fabric of the story much like the offbeat rhythms of a Coltrane sax solo are woven into the development of a musical piece.

'My Brilliant Career' is one of the few novels where the major flaws of the main character are the entire point of her story. Sybylla’s struggles to express herself creatively in the face of poverty, social convention and her own bursting emotions is a wonderful theme about the difficulties of being true to oneself. The backdrop of dusty, desert-like Australian bushland is a perfect external manifestation of the turmoil within Sybylla as she makes her way in life. But Franklin has resisted the temptation to turn ‘My Brilliant Career’ into a manifesto for the independent young woman and has drawn instead a remarkable portrait of a young girl trying to make her way towards something true, even when she’s not entirely sure what that will be.