Film Name: 追逐繁星的孩子 / Children who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below / 星を追う子ども
Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below, director Makoto Shinkai’s new work released four years after 5 Centimeters per Second. Yet few know that during those four years, Shinkai did not remain in Japan but spent time studying abroad. Overseas, he not only gained new knowledge but also secured precious time for independent reflection. He distanced himself from the beautiful myths about skies and romantic love, instead turning his attention to the people on the ground—to what stories people of this era truly wanted to see. This time, he chose the earth, and even the underground.
The title Children Who Chase Lost Voices carries profound meaning. The film contains remarkably few depictions of stars, with only one scene leaving a lasting impression: the young boy Shun reaching toward the constellations in his final moments, yearning to touch them. This shot is intensely powerful, vividly embodying the symbolic value of stars as the embodiment of human dreams and aspirations. Of course, the English title doesn’t translate “stars” as “Star,” but rather as “Lost Voices.” A literal translation would be “Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below.” Considering the running girl depicted in the title logo, there’s no doubt who the “child chasing stars” is—besides the female protagonist Asuna, there’s no other choice.
The more crucial keyword in this title is “chasing.” The film’s central theme is the quest for something, rather than being framed as a love story like director Shinkai’s previous works. This quest is profoundly important, its significance lying more in the journey itself than in the destination. The protagonists grow through their quests. They set out with a purpose, sometimes finding what they seek, sometimes not. Yet their unwavering persistence in the search becomes a way of life.
Positioning the film as a story of pursuit and discovery is profoundly meaningful, for ours is an era demanding a renewed search for meaning. Amidst today’s material abundance bordering on decadence, modern people must rediscover the meaning of existence—or at least contemplate this question. After losing loved ones, what direction should survivors embrace to carry on? Teacher Morisaki seeks his departed beloved wife, while Asuna searches for the mystery behind Shun’s image and song—ultimately seeking her own lost father.
From her first appearance, Asuna projects optimism and resilience. She manages household chores independently while excelling academically. Yet deep inside, she feels profoundly adrift. Her strong sense of self-reliance is a shield against inner vulnerability—for what girl doesn’t yearn for her parents’ care and a lover’s affection? “Maybe I’m just too lonely!” This inner monologue, uttered by Asuna when facing the Yizu tribe’s pursuit and nearly losing her will to survive, starkly reveals the lost soul hidden beneath her outwardly self-reliant and optimistic facade.
Mr. Morisaki represents the adult perspective in the film. Director Shinkai has consistently featured adults as protagonists in his previous works—one might even say his protagonists have nearly always been around his own age at the time of creation. He had never before considered creating a work for children, though objectively, some children did enjoy his films. This time, however, Director Shinkai finally set the protagonist as an elementary school student, marking his first step into the psychological world of children. Of course, he still incorporates a symbol representing adults in full force: Morisaki. The film unfolds sequentially across two psychological dimensions—that of the child and that of the adult. In the film’s promotional copy, Makoto Shinkai wrote: “This is a journey undertaken to say goodbye.” Morisaki embodies his love for his deceased wife through his unwavering actions. As everyone anticipated, the dead cannot be resurrected; seeking out the departed ultimately leads only to a new, even more painful farewell. Yet Morisaki presses forward without hesitation, a resolve that is undeniably profound.
Both Morisaki and Asuna seek something profound. Crucially, we must consider the historical context of the film’s release—two months after the Great East Japan Earthquake. While we cannot claim director Shinkai foresaw or reflected the collective grief of Japanese mourning their disaster victims, the film objectively offered Japanese audiences a beautiful window to re-examine the catastrophe. Those who lost loved ones would find in the film a shared pain and love.
Stylistically, while the work appears to draw from Studio Ghibli’s aesthetic, we should trace its roots back to the source of Ghibli’s style—Toei Animation’s “Hello Kitty’s Furry Tale Theater.” Many critics accuse Makoto Shinkai of copying Hayao Miyazaki’s style, but in truth, Shinkai is not copying Miyazaki—he is copying “Hello Kitty’s Furry Tale Theater.” Many Japanese creators like Makoto Shinkai grew up watching “Hello Kitty’s Furry Tale Theater.” This aesthetic—delicate, refined, yet distinctly handsome—has long been ingrained in their sensibilities. It transcends being merely Miyazaki or Studio Ghibli’s style; it has become a quintessential Japanese aesthetic. Shinkai’s adoption of this style creates an immediate connection with audiences—whereas his earlier works were often noted more for their distinctive visual aesthetics, which sometimes distracted viewers from truly immersing themselves in the characters’ inner worlds.
Of course, even for an animated film with such precise pacing, beautiful visuals, moving music, and thought-provoking storytelling, I still have some questions. The primary one concerns the world-building of the underground realm. It truly is a beautiful “territory”: who knew the underworld could boast such a bright sky, such vast plains, and such a prosperous civilization? This completely diverges from conventional notions of above-ground versus underground worlds. It essentially functions as a utopian paradise, a parallel universe to the real world. If that’s the case, what’s the point of distinguishing between above and below? Additionally, when the Yizu first abducted Asuna, why didn’t they consume her? And why didn’t they take Morisaki-sensei, who also came from the surface?
Finally, I must mention how much I adore the names of the two boys, Shun and Kokoro. What is perfect lasts only a moment, while what endures is the heart that keeps growing. Whether it’s Shun, love at first sight, or Kokoro, love that grows over time, what remains for Asuna is an intriguing puzzle. This is also a story about the complementary personalities of twins: the older brother was a perfect person, but he died young; the younger brother is a somewhat impulsive but pure and kind child. He lacks his brother’s maturity, yet he is rapidly completing his own emotional growth.
Additionally, the film features multiple instances of characters leaping or falling from cliffs. Shun falls, Kokoro jumps, and finally, Kuchart takes Asuna with him as they plunge off the cliff. This might be one of Makoto Shinkai’s favorite elements in action sequences. Of course, the film also features many striking ritual depictions. For instance, the ancient Kuchart slowly approaching and consuming Mimi during the ritual, or the ceremony at the film’s conclusion where the deity grants Morisaki’s wish—both leave a profound impression. These rituals contribute to the film’s world-building, enhancing its sense of mystery and grandeur.
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