Film Name: 借东西的小人阿莉埃蒂 / The Borrower Arrietty / The Secret World of Arrietty / 借りぐらしのアリエッティ
Although this work is the debut film by Studio Ghibli’s new director Hiromasa Yonebayashi, it was conceived and written by Hayao Miyazaki himself. Therefore, we can still view this film as a continuation of Miyazaki’s narrative philosophy. This philosophy centers on the theme of women rescuing men.
Since Princess Mononoke, the male characters in Miyazaki’s works have been portrayed as more or less flawed. Some, like Ashitaka (the male protagonist of “Princess Mononoke”), suffer physical mutilation; others, like Hauru (the male protagonist of “Howl’s Moving Castle”) and Haku (the male protagonist of “Spirited Away”), are bound by magic. In “The Secret World of Arrietty,” the male protagonist Sho is also an imperfect individual, afflicted with heart disease. Almost without exception, the female characters in Miyazaki’s films fulfill the mission of liberating these men from their physical and psychological shackles.
However, in “The Secret World of Arrietty,” we sense a subtle shift: women no longer exist in such detached isolation from men. Instead, they too become dependent on men—and this dependency is actively chosen. Arrietty possesses an adventurous spirit, climbing and leaping like a boy to fulfill her mission of “borrowing things” from humans. Ultimately, she becomes a vital element in completing the male protagonist’s emotional journey, shining as brightly as the female heroes in previous Miyazaki films. Yet, she also cries when her mother is captured and seeks help from the male protagonist. This female dependence on a male counterpart is a rare departure from Miyazaki’s previous films. By convention, Arrietty should have sought to find and rescue her mother independently, rather than climbing through Sho’s window to ask for help.
The film strives to portray both Arrietty’s fearless, heroic side and her vulnerable, feminine side—an ambiguous sentiment unprecedented in Studio Ghibli’s history. This transformation renders Arrietty less of a feminist icon—like Nausicaä from Valley of the Wind, Princess Mononoke, or Ponyo from Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea—and more of a fully realized, complex human being. This could be seen as Hiromasa Yonebayashi’s attempt to rethink female characters within Hayao Miyazaki’s narrative framework.
Speaking of ambiguity, it has indeed become an aesthetic hallmark of Ghibli’s recent films. Watching Ghibli often means witnessing uncertain character dynamics and ambiguous conclusions. Everything seems to unfold organically, as if not pre-planned.
The Secret World of Arrietty poses two core questions that the film ultimately leaves unresolved, creating a rather intriguing sense of ambiguity:
First, is the relationship between Arrietty and Sho friendship or love? If it’s friendship, why did Arrietty feel such a flutter of excitement when she first saw Sho during her “borrowing”? Why was their first intimate encounter depicted with such striking and vivid emotion? And why, upon learning her mother had been captured, did she first seek help from Sho rather than her father? If it’s love, then what exactly is the position of Spiller, another borrowing-thing dwarf, at the film’s conclusion? Ultimately, the answer remains ambiguous. Their bond is both friendship and love. The film invites audiences to hope for romantic sparks between them while rationally sidestepping the possibility of such a relationship.
Second, are humans a threat or a friend to the Borrowers? If a threat, why would anyone meticulously craft toy rooms specifically for them? Why would Sho assist the Borrowers so enthusiastically—even before encountering the beautiful Arrietty? If friends, why does Haru act like a wicked stepmother, capturing Arrietty’s mother and hiring pest control experts to hunt them down? I had hoped the film would reinterpret the conflicts and misunderstandings arising from the lack of communication between these two communities, positioning Arrietty and Sho as messengers to resolve their differences. Yet by the film’s conclusion, this interpretation never materialized. Arrietty and Sho seem like an exceptionally rare exception—their bond lacks universality. This ambiguity leaves audiences with a broader question: Is separation truly better than dwelling in the exquisite miniature homes provided by humans?
Personally, I still believe separation is the better outcome. While a kind-hearted person might yearn for harmonious coexistence between humans and every species, even the most beautiful, meticulously crafted dollhouse ultimately remains a cage.
The so-called “borrowing” by the little people is, at its core, an act of self-reliance. Though their race cannot produce these necessities, “borrowing” them from humans requires skill, courage, capability, and wisdom. If the little people ultimately chose the comfortable homes provided by humans—even if offered with the purest of intentions—it would amount to being “co-opted.” It would be an insult to their racial dignity, for dwelling there would no longer make them the Little People, but rather a race of “pets.”
Arrietty’s father understood this profoundly. The Little People maintained a deliberate distance from humans precisely to preserve their independence—an independence that underpinned their racial dignity. One line in the film is profoundly thought-provoking: Arrietty’s mother adores the kitchenware gifted by humans, but her father insists, “We take nothing from humans,” because these items were not earned through the little people’s own labor. Coincidentally, it was precisely when Arrietty’s mother, unable to part with the human-given teapot, tried to take it that she was discovered by Mrs. Haru, leading to a major catastrophe.
From this perspective, Arrietty and Sho were destined to part ways. Humans envisioning the little people dwelling in a beautifully crafted dollhouse is merely an ideal—or rather, a delusion. It underestimates the little people’s need to preserve their dignity. When Sho brought kitchen items to the little people, he likely never imagined that such kindness could cause them pain. Perhaps the most harmonious coexistence between humans and the little people lies in maintaining a certain distance.
The plot of this film is not complex, yet every detail is crafted with the same meticulous care seen in previous Studio Ghibli works. Beyond the intricate design of each piece of furniture, every prop, and every background illustration, one element I find particularly noteworthy is Arrietty’s hairpin. Its presence transforms Arrietty into two distinct personas. With the hairpin on, she becomes a brave little-person “hunter”; without it, she reverts to a demure young lady. Ultimately, this hairpin also serves as the token Arrietty gives to Sho, further underscoring its significance. When Arrietty presents the hairpin to Sho, she instantly transforms from hero to maiden, tears welling as her fingers touch his—a profoundly moving moment!
Though the film’s aesthetic is already exquisitely beautiful, its emotions exquisitely delicate, and the comfort it offers the soul already deeply tender, I believe there are still a few minor questions worth discussing:
First, how did Sho know the little people lived in the sewer? Why did he think to place paper and sugar cubes on the steps near the sewer entrance? The film needs further explanation and setup here.
Second, how did Sho know which floor hid the little people’s room? How could he locate their dwelling so precisely and replace their kitchen?
Third, how did the cat transform from initially wanting to catch the little people to becoming Arrietty’s friend? Was it simply because Sho brought the cat to meet Arrietty once?
Fourth, while animals like the cat and woodlice are relatively realistic, the underground cricket is highly cartoonish. Though the anthropomorphized big-eyed cricket is cute and amusing, what specific meaning does this design discrepancy between species hold? Consider that in Spirited Away, all creatures are cartoonish and anthropomorphized. Similarly, Studio Ghibli’s music video “Dore Dore no Uta” employs consistent cartoonization and anthropomorphism. What matters is stylistic unity, not isolated attempts at humorous treatment.
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