In post-World War II Japan, a teenage boy takes his feverish little sister — plagued by diarrhoea, prickly heat, and rashes — to a doctor. The physician diagnoses malnutrition. The brother, Seita, pleads for medicine.
"Medicine?" the doctor responds with devastating simplicity. "All the child needs is some food." Seita's heartrending reply still reverberates through my soul fifteen years after I first encountered this moment: "She needs food... WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GET FOOD?"
This haunting scene belongs to Grave of the Fireflies, one of Studio Ghibli's animated masterpieces. I cannot summon memories of this film without tears welling up in my eyes. If granted a superpower, I would make it compulsory viewing in every educational institution worldwide — so that no one forgets that every war everywhere is a story written on the dead bodies of children. But despite my passionate efforts, all I've managed in the last decade and a half is to persuade a handful to experience this nearly 40-year-old cinematic treasure.
Until now.
To my shocked delight, everything changed after a Studio Ghibli-inspired image-generation feature in OpenAI's ChatGPT went suddenly viral. And how. From college students in Coimbatore to my nephews in Assam, I've fielded inquiries about which Ghibli films deserve priority viewing. Names I hadn't uttered in years — My Neighbor Totoro, Castle in the Sky, Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Howl's Moving Castle, and my beloved Grave of the Fireflies — now slip off my tongue like a skater gliding across ice formed from my tears of gratitude. OpenAI's feature has unexpectedly sparked such an overwhelming interest in the art, craft, and heart of Studio Ghibli's works that it has crashed the generative AI company's GPUs, forcing CEO Sam Altman to plead with people not to overuse the feature as much.
But, surprise-surprise, not everyone's happy with this viral moment. First are the copyright advocates, whose concerns about potential legal infractions are genuine and understandable. Many such cases are ongoing worldwide. Less comprehensible — at least to me — is the resurfaced video of studio co-founder Hayao Miyazaki denouncing AI-generated art as an "insult to life itself". This archival clip has gone viral, enthusiastically propagated by many, including all AI detractors, at a pace that ironically rivals the spread of Ghibli's artistry into the world’s zeitgeist in this very surreal moment.
I have two concerns with this narrative: first, Miyazaki's comments have been taken out of their original context; second, I believe that this cultural phenomenon represents the biggest reward for both Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli. Allow me to address both points.
In the now-viral video, which is eight years old and, I suspect, is from a documentary about the sensei, Miyazaki is reacting to an AI-generated animation featuring a grotesque creature, similar to the monsters in horror games like Resident Evil. He watches as this unsettling entity drags itself forward, using its head as an unnatural, disturbing propellant for its motion.
The man showing this video to Miyazaki says that because AI can't perceive pain or self-preservation instincts, they can create such creatures that are usable in zombie-themed games. Miyazaki is disgusted and says the creature reminds him of a friend with a disability. He thinks the imagery is a repugnant, dehumanising attempt at art — declaring that it constitutes "an insult to life itself".
Miyazaki explained his revulsion further, stating he would never incorporate such elements into his work and interpreted such developments as symptomatic of humanity's diminishing faith in itself, suggesting, "I feel like we are nearing the end of times."
We must first understand that Miyazaki's reaction was specifically targeted at the grotesque, inhuman creation he had just witnessed, attributing these same characteristics to the AI that generated the video.
Furthermore, if Miyazaki truly meant to condemn AI in general as "an insult to life" — as many now assume — with all respect due to him, we must recognise this as emblematic of the self-righteousness that afflicts many elders, who often perceive innovations embraced by younger generations as affronts to established traditions. I felt artists would have a greater immunity to this tendency, but clearly, I am wrong.
When Miyazaki began crafting animation films 62 years ago, people as old as he is right now likely directed similar criticisms at him — that this novel medium of camera-based art forms, including animated films, constituted an "insult to life itself". Consider that, throughout the millions of years of bipedal existence on Earth, we have experienced cinema for merely a century and a quarter; it would not be wrong to call it unnatural to life itself. If Miyazaki rejected characterisations of his chosen medium as an abomination six decades ago, then he must extend the same courtesy to this generation and their innovative artistic approaches, even if they utilise AI.
Most significantly, I truly think that this moment is Miyazaki's greatest celebration. When a teenage girl from Valparai — a small village nestled in the Anamalai Hills, 100 kilometres from Coimbatore — wonders about Studio Ghibli or Hayao Miyazaki, this curiosity surpasses any accolade they have received or might receive, including Oscars. Failing to recognise the profound significance of this moment is devastatingly shortsighted. After all, every artist — myself included — ultimately yearns for their creations, conceived in cerebral solitude, to find every drop of appreciation they can garner in this busy world. This adulation is more than every lifetime achievement award ever — something many creators would wager their souls for if it guaranteed such recognition.
An entire new generation has awakened to the gentle power of Studio Ghibli's cinematic poetry. While I cannot speak for the studio's creators, I quietly celebrate this moment, reminded of another poignant line from Grave of the Fireflies when little Setsuko asks her brother with innocent melancholy, "Why do fireflies have to die so soon?" Every artist resembles a firefly. We illuminate this world with a brief flicker during our finite existence, only to be forgotten the moment we're gone. To have that flicker amplified exponentially, even for a fleeting viral moment, transcends what any artist might reasonably hope to achieve in our fragile world.
Rather than dismissing these AI-generated tributes, perhaps we should view them as digital fireflies — ephemeral but luminous celebrations of an artistic legacy that continues to inspire across generations and technologies. In their 'viral' glow, new eyes are discovering the original masterpieces that have moved hearts and squeezed tear ducts for decades, ensuring that Studio Ghibli's light will continue to shine long after individual fireflies–like Miyazaki himself–fade into the night.
