There are films that speak to you. The Wind Rises doesn’t. It murmurs just loud enough for you to lean in, and by the time you realize it, you’ve fallen into something that isn’t quite a dream, and not exactly reality either. It’s like remembering someone else’s life, one detail at a time—half of them beautiful, the other half too quiet to name.
Jirō isn’t a hero. I’m not even sure he’s the protagonist in the usual sense. Watching him is like watching a man fold his soul into blueprints. He’s not trying to change the world—he’s just trying to build something that flies, even if it burns on the way down. And somehow, that makes him harder to love and harder to judge. I kept wondering: how much beauty is worth the cost of silence?
The film moves like wind itself—sometimes aimless, sometimes abrupt, sometimes whispering things you only understand after they’re gone. It’s full of stillness, but not the peaceful kind. More like the kind that fills a room after someone leaves. Even the love story, if that’s what it is, doesn’t offer shelter. It just… happens. Briefly. Tenderly. Like two people sharing a secret they both know will expire.
Visually, it’s deceptive. The softness of the animation lulls you into thinking it’s safe. But it isn’t. There’s a quiet violence in the way things are drawn here—how the sky always seems just out of reach, how the wind carries more than air. It’s all so gently precise that you forget you’re watching war materialize in pencil strokes. And maybe that’s the point: the most dangerous things often arrive wrapped in beauty.
When it ended, I didn’t feel sad. I felt haunted. There’s something deeply unsettling about watching a man chase a dream that’s already marked for ruin. But what got to me most wasn’t the war, or the loss, or even the inevitability of it all—it was the way Jirō kept walking forward, like forward was the only direction he could understand. Not hopeful. Not naïve. Just… committed. And I’m still thinking about what that says, not just about him, but about all of us.
