I would say a very defining sentiment about working in the 2010s was this culture of hustle. You were supposed to always have something to do, always be working, always have something on the side that was bringing in some income. This was certainly reflected in encouraging people to start their own businesses, which was very effective with the advent of sites like Etsy that explicitly allowed you to do that, but it could even apply to things like making videos on YouTube or taking on art commissions.
Many “entrepreneurs” encourage others to turn their hobbies into jobs because you already have a skill, why not use it to make money? But that kind of sucks, right? Sometimes it works to turn what you love most into a job, but it’s not always the right thing to do. Somehow, 35 years ago, the Studio Ghibli classic Kiki’s Delivery Service This exact feeling is captured through the lens of a young witch trying to carve out her own magical career.
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A quick summary for those who have never seen the film (you should correct this right now, seriously, stop reading, go watch this film, then come back and you can skip this paragraph), Kiki’s Delivery Service tells the story of the eponymous character, a teenage girl who has to leave home, like all witches her age. She flies away on her broomstick and ends up settling down in a beautiful seaside town, an idyllic place. Soon enough, she finds this quaint little bakery and starts living there and opening up her goods delivery service.
It’s certainly one of Miyazaki’s quieter films, with no exciting, spiritual bathhouses or handsome magicians taking you to his mobile castle during war, but that’s what makes it special. Kiki’s Delivery Service finds beauty in the ordinary, discovering yourself at a very vulnerable age, and making lifelong connections – you know, the things you normally do when you’re 13. While Kiki’s beginning is a nice moment, what really elevates this film from a simple delight to an understated classic is when she starts to feel languid.
I’m sure most of you have experienced burnout, that feeling of exhaustion that comes from having too much of any one thing in your life, usually from having too much work to do, or just doing too much work. Especially in professional jobs, burnout can lead to questions like “what the hell am I doing with my life” and “why did I ever think it would be a good idea to start a business that draws pictures of people’s dogs wearing silly hats when the money is nowhere near enough” (I admit that may be a little too specific, but you get the idea).
This is exactly what Kiki is going through, although it’s described as the good old classic art block that can easily come with burnout. This art block caused her to lose her magic powers, preventing her from flying or understanding her talking black cat Jiji, which unsurprisingly sent her into a state of depression. We’ve all had those days where we just lie in bed because what else can we do but sleep? Right?
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Kiki’s situation is literally about losing interest in a passion after it becomes a job, and that’s not even a metaphor, it’s just a literal problem. She can’t work because it’s hard work, but also because she’s lost the spark that drove her to pursue her passion in the first place. It’s an understandable experience – I started writing about video games because I love them, but now they’re also jobs, and jobs kind of suck sometimes, so I’ve had to rethink my relationship with games so that they don’t always feel like work.
It’s this relatability that makes Kiki’s Delivery Service so special and makes it stand out from Miyazaki’s other works. It also suggests, in a way, that your feelings, your ennui, your artistic block, are not a single, unique feeling, but something that has been around for decades, even centuries before Kiki’s Delivery Service was released. Kiki’s Delivery Service is comforting not because of how cute or beautiful it is, but because it understands what it’s like to be young and uncertain about the future. I just didn’t expect it to continue to be relatable thirty years later.
