Grave Of The Fireflies Roger Ebert Site

There are films that entertain you, films that challenge you, and then there is Grave of the Fireflies . This is not a film that you “like” or “enjoy.” It is a film that you survive . And having survived it, you are never quite the same.

Takahata does not animate his characters like the cutesy mascots we expect from the studio that gave us My Neighbor Totoro (released as a double feature with this film in Japan—imagine that emotional whiplash). He draws them with an aching realism. When Setsuko cries, her face crumples like wet paper. When Seita tries to be brave, his jaw is tight with the terror of a child who knows he is the only shield between his sister and the void. grave of the fireflies roger ebert

We open in a crowded train station. A young boy, ragged and skeletal, leans against a pillar. He is dying. A janitor approaches, finds a candy tin, and tosses it into a field. From the tin, a small, ghostly firefly rises. So begins the memory of Seita, a teenager trying to keep his little sister, Setsuko, alive in the final months of World War II. There are films that entertain you, films that

BY ROGER EBERT / April 8, 1988

Isao Takahata’s 1988 masterpiece, produced by the legendary Studio Ghibli, is an animated film about the firebombing of Kobe during World War II. But to call it a “war film” is like calling the Book of Job a “bad day at the office.” It is a ghost story that announces its ending in its first shot, then spends the next 89 minutes breaking your heart by showing you how it got there. Takahata does not animate his characters like the

It is there, in a cave by a placid lake, that the film performs its cruel magic. We watch the siblings play in the firefly light. We watch Setsuko build a tiny grave for the dead insects. “Why do fireflies have to die so soon?” she asks. Seita doesn’t answer. He is too busy watching his sister starve.

There is no villain here. No evil general, no snarling American pilot. The enemy is the math of scarcity. The villain is the logic that says an orphan is less valuable than a farmer. Seita’s fatal flaw is not pride, but love. He gives Setsuko his share of the food, drains his own life into her, and watches helplessly as she slips away. The famous, devastating final montage—Setsuko playing alone in the cave, hallucinating, cutting a tombstone for her imaginary feast—is not manipulative. It is simply the truth.