Recently, with the release of GPT-4o, the internet has been filled with a wave of AI-generated Ghibli-style images. Those familiar colors, that painterly stillness, the delicate hero design, the hand-drawn style, and the soft light of a world half-dream and half-memory—all of it brought one film back to me in particular: Porco Rosso.
Among all of Miyazaki’s works, this story of flight and solitude has always moved me the most—and it’s the one I return to again and again. I’ve watched it many times—first in my youth, then in midlife, and now, as I step into my sixties. Each time, I find a different Porco. More importantly, I find a different version of myself.
The Romantic Dreamer: Youthful Wings
I first watched Porco Rosso in my twenties, not long after it was released in 1992. Back then, I had just stepped into society—young, restless, and drawn to stories that promised escape and independence. I was easily enchanted by romance and fantasy, and Porco was exactly the kind of hero I admired: stylish, rebellious, a lone aviator living by his own rules. I saw adventure in the skies, battles with sky pirates, and a life of freedom with no need for apology.
But back then, I didn’t understand why Miyazaki would choose to portray the hero of the entire film as a pig. What did that loneliness mean? Why did he carry so much silence? I never questioned the curse or the isolation—I simply saw someone cool, someone free, someone I wanted to be. At that age, we often see motion without noticing the stillness behind it.
The Protector: A Middle-Aged Reflection
Years later, I revisited Porco Rosso in midlife. This time, I no longer saw just freedom—I saw fatigue. The way Porco carried himself, his silence, the way he looked at Gina but never crossed the line—it all resonated differently. In my forties, I had learned how heavy memories can become. I understood why someone would choose to be a pig instead of wearing a uniform again. Why someone would retreat from the world—not out of apathy, but out of quiet sorrow.
At that point in my life, Porco's loneliness and retreat from the world mirrored something deeper—my own fatigue, my quiet compromises with reality. I wasn’t just watching him; I was watching a part of myself. It’s the stage of life where you stop trying to conquer the world and start wanting to protect the people you love. In Porco’s stubborn flights, I didn’t see escape—I saw a kind of love, a quiet way of guarding what still matters.
The Witness: On the Edge of Sixty
Now, as I enter the early dusk of life, Porco Rosso feels like a different film again. I no longer envy Porco, nor pity him—I understand him. His transformation into a pig no longer feels symbolic. It feels inevitable. Time reshapes us. Faces change. Bodies slow. But what matters is how gently we hold what remains.
Porco no longer fights—he guards. He lets Fio see him without the mask, not to impress her, but to pass something on. He looks at Gina not with yearning, but with peace—he knows that some distances are meant to be honored, not crossed.
At this stage in life, you begin letting go of stories. You no longer need to prove anything. You simply choose what matters and protect it quietly.
Conclusion
I’ve lived three lives with Porco Rosso: once as a dreamer, once as a protector, and now as a witness. With each return, I’ve discovered a new truth within the clouds he flies through. A truly great work doesn’t fade with time—it evolves with the person watching it, revealing new meanings with each return.
When he chose to stop flying, it wasn’t because he had forgotten the meaning of the wind—it was because he knew it was time for someone else to feel that freedom. What he left behind was direction, and belief.
As we grow older, we lose many things. But if we can still feel the wind—still care, still protect, and still pass something on—then that is enough.
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