He wears an off-white apron whose narrow strap hooks around the neck and attaches with a single button on the left side - the same style of apron he has worn for years as a work and public uniform, a reminder that he is at once artist and artisan, ever on guard against daubs of paint - over a crisp white collared shirt, his white mustache and beard neat and trim, and his white hair blurring into a near halo as he gazes calmly at me through owlish black glasses, across the 6,700 miles from Tokyo to New York.įor, in an age of ever-advancing technology, his animated films are radical in their repudiation of it. Three little apples perch on a red brick ledge behind the stove. Sun burns through the branches of the trees outside.
THE SCREEN IS black, and then comes the first frame: Hayao Miyazaki, the greatest animated filmmaker since the advent of the form in the early 20th century and one of the greatest filmmakers of any genre, is seated in front of a cast-iron stove with a pipe running up toward the ceiling, flanked by windows propped half open. To hear more audio stories from publications like The New York Times, download Audm for iPhone or Android.
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