Isao Takahata was a perfectionist. Honestly, that’s an understatement. When he set out to make The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, he didn't just want to tell a 10th-century Japanese folk tale. He wanted to dismantle the very way we look at animation. Most people see Studio Ghibli and immediately think of Hayao Miyazaki’s lush, painterly backgrounds or the whimsical spirits of My Neighbor Totoro. But Takahata’s swan song is something else entirely. It's raw. It's jagged. It looks like a watercolor painting that hasn't quite dried yet, where the lines bleed into the paper and the characters seem to vibrate with an almost unbearable amount of life.
It took eight years to finish.
Think about that for a second. Eight years for a single film. By the time it was released in 2013, the budget had ballooned to roughly $50 million, making it one of the most expensive Japanese films ever produced. And yet, if you look at it, there are moments where the screen is almost entirely white. It’s a bold, defiant use of negative space that most modern studios would find terrifying. But that’s the magic of this movie. It doesn't care about your expectations of "smooth" animation. It cares about the weight of being human.
Why The Tale of the Princess Kaguya feels so different
Most animated films try to hide the hand of the artist. They want you to forget you’re looking at drawings. Takahata did the opposite. He wanted the charcoal lines to be visible, specifically because a finished, polished line can feel dead. When Princess Kaguya—the girl found in a stalk of glowing bamboo—revels in the countryside, the lines are soft and flowing. But when she’s trapped in the suffocating life of a noblewoman, the art becomes rigid.
Then there’s the flight scene.
You know the one. Kaguya snaps. She flees her naming ceremony, tearing through silk robes and slamming through doors. The animation dissolves into violent, frantic scribbles. It’s one of the most visceral depictions of a mental breakdown ever put to film, animated or otherwise. You feel the speed. You feel the desperation. It’s not "pretty," but it is deeply, painfully real.
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The weight of "Taketori Monogatari"
The film is based on The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, which is basically the oldest narrative in Japanese literature. Everyone in Japan knows the story. It’s their Cinderella or King Arthur. Usually, it’s told as a whimsical fairy tale about a moon princess. Takahata, however, saw it as a story about the tragedy of parental expectations.
The Bamboo Cutter, Sanuki no Miyatsuko, isn't a villain. That’s what makes the movie so heartbreaking. He genuinely thinks he’s doing the right thing. He finds gold and fine robes in the bamboo, and he assumes—as many parents do—that "happiness" means status. He drags Kaguya away from her friends and the dirt and the birds in the village to turn her into a "real" princess. He treats her like a trophy, a bird in a gilded cage. He mistakes her silent compliance for refinement, never realizing he’s crushing the very spirit he claims to love.
The crushing reality of the five suitors
A huge chunk of the movie involves Kaguya being pursued by five high-ranking suitors, including the Emperor himself. In the original folklore, this is often treated like a clever riddle or a test of wit. In The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, it’s a parade of ego and objectification.
Each man tries to win her by promising legendary treasures: a stone bowl from the Buddha, a branch from a tree of gold and silver, a robe made from the fur of a fire-rat. They don't see a woman. They see a rare item to be collected. Kaguya’s response is brilliant and biting—she demands they actually produce these impossible items. When they fail—some by lying, some by dying, some by just being cowards—it’s not just a plot point. It’s a critique of a society that views women as prizes.
- Prince Ishitsukuri tries to pass off a dirty old bowl as a holy relic.
- Prince Kuramochi pays a workshop of artisans to forge a fake branch.
- Minister of the Right Abe buys a "fire-rat" robe that immediately burns to ash.
The only suitor who shows even a shred of genuine effort is the one who dies trying to reach a swallow's nest. It’s grim. It’s supposed to be. Life on Earth is messy and full of failure, and Kaguya eventually realizes that even these flawed, greedy men are more "alive" than the cold, emotionless perfection of the Moon.
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The Moon: Perfection as a curse
We usually think of the Moon as a place of wonder. In this film, it’s a place of ultimate apathy.
When the celestial procession finally descends to take Kaguya back, they don't come with anger or judgment. They come with music. This bright, upbeat, terrifyingly cheery music that sounds like a parade. It’s haunting because it doesn't match the grief Kaguya is feeling. To the moon-beings, human emotions are a sickness. They view our world—the world of "spinning wheels and cherry blossoms"—as a place of filth and sorrow.
When the robe of forgetfulness is draped over Kaguya’s shoulders, her memories of Earth vanish. The tragedy isn't that she dies; it's that she stops caring. She loses the capacity to feel the pain of living, which also means she loses the capacity to feel love. Takahata is making a massive point here: the pain of existence is what makes it worth having.
Joe Hisaishi’s final masterpiece?
We have to talk about the score. Joe Hisaishi is the legendary composer for almost all Ghibli films, but his work here is distinct. It’s minimalist. He uses traditional Japanese instruments to ground the story in its era, but the "Procession of the Celestials" theme is what sticks in your brain. It’s a sambo-like, rhythmic track that feels completely alien to the emotional weight of the scene. It’s intentional. It makes the viewer feel the same disconnect Kaguya feels.
Why it failed at the box office (and why that doesn't matter)
Despite the critical acclaim and an Academy Award nomination, the movie didn't make its money back. Not even close. It was long—nearly two and a half hours. It was "experimental" in its art style. It didn't have the commercial hooks of a Disney flick.
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But in the years since Takahata’s death in 2018, the film’s reputation has only grown. It’s now frequently cited by animators and directors (including the likes of Wes Anderson and Guillermo del Toro) as one of the peak achievements of the medium. It’s a film that demands you pay attention. It doesn't give you easy answers.
People often ask: "Is it for kids?"
Kinda. Children will love the early scenes of Kaguya growing up in the forest (the "Little Bamboo" phase). But the second half is a heavy meditation on mortality and the loss of innocence. It’s a movie that grows with you. If you watch it at ten, you see a fairy tale. If you watch it at thirty, you see a story about the fleeting nature of life and the way we often realize what’s important only when it’s being taken away.
Actionable insights for your first (or next) viewing
If you’re planning to dive into The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, don't just put it on in the background while you scroll on your phone. You'll miss the nuance.
- Watch the lines, not just the characters. Notice how the thickness and speed of the charcoal lines change based on Kaguya's emotional state. This is called "cinematic empathy" through line work.
- Compare it to the source material. If you have twenty minutes, read a summary of The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. Seeing what Takahata changed—specifically giving Kaguya an internal life and a desire to stay on Earth—makes the film much more impactful.
- Look for the "negative space." In many scenes, the edges of the frame are unfinished. This is a traditional Japanese aesthetic called ma. It represents the "gap" or the "pause." It’s meant to give the audience room to breathe and think.
- Keep the subtitles on. Even if you usually prefer dubs, the original Japanese voice acting (especially Aki Asakura as Kaguya) captures a specific type of period-accurate grief that is hard to translate.
This film isn't just "content" to be consumed. It’s a piece of high art that happened to be made by an animation studio. It challenges the idea that animation is just for kids or that it has to look a certain way to be "good." Honestly, it’s a miracle a movie this beautiful and this sad even exists.
To truly appreciate the legacy of this film, watch the documentary The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness. It provides a rare look at the grueling production process at Studio Ghibli during the simultaneous production of The Wind Rises and Kaguya. Following that, explore the shorter works of Isao Takahata, such as My Neighbors the Yamadas, to see how he experimented with the minimalist style before perfecting it in his final masterpiece.