Movies

Tony Leung stars as a spy chief during a shadowy period in midcentury China, when nationalists, communists and imperialists vied for power and souls.History’s shadow is long; so is the shadow of Tony Leung’s cigarette, which few other images in modern Chinese (Hong Kong) cinema can rival for iconographic force. To picture him smoking is to conjure an entire world of feeling — the aesthetic ecstasy of Wong Kar-wai distilled into a single vision. Perhaps only Bruce Lee’s fist or the Cheongsam sway of another Wong favorite, Maggie Cheung, compare.Like many a neo-noirist, Cheng Er thrives in these shadows. They define his latest film, “Hidden Blade,” a puzzle-box action-thriller set amid the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937-45), during which communists, Chinese nationalists, Japanese imperialists and collaborators vied for power and souls: shadow warfare; shadow governments; and yes, a lot of deep-shadow photography of Leung, who plays a spy chief, looking amazing while smoking. (Then there is the shadow of Chinese communism, which raises tricky questions about the film’s politics.)Impeccably coifed and suited, with his sad smile and careful manners, the simmering, mesmerizing Wang Yibo, who plays a young spy-assassin protégée (of whom, exactly, is a central question), is like a mirror to Leung from decades ago. That sense of homage appears deliberate; it serves the story in ways that aren’t merely meta-textual, and Cheng clearly honors the immense talent and cinematic history at his disposal.But however crisp and stylishly executed, the parts don’t quite add up to a satisfying whole. The women characters (led by Zhou Xun) are thinly drawn, and Cheng’s love for puzzle-plotting leads too often to confusion, with too little payoff for all that time wandering the darkness. Still, I could have watched the actors smoke (and cry, and bleed) in midcentury Shanghai’s sumptuous back rooms all day.Hidden BladeNot rated. In Mandarin, with subtitles. Running time: 2 hours 8 minutes. In theaters. More

Beginning with a doeskin bikini in “One Million Years B.C.,” she built a celebrated show business career around sex appeal and, sometimes, a comic touch.Raquel Welch, the voluptuous movie actress who became the 1960s’ first major American sex symbol and maintained that image for a half-century in show business, died on Wednesday at her home in Los Angeles. She was 82.Her death was confirmed by her son, Damon Welch. No cause was given.Ms. Welch’s Hollywood success began as much with a poster as with the film it publicized. Starring in “One Million Years B.C.” (1966) as a Pleistocene-era cave woman, she posed in a rocky prehistoric landscape, wearing a tattered doeskin bikini, and grabbed the spotlight by the throat with her defiant, alert-to-everything, take-no-prisoners stance and her dancer’s body. She was 26. It had been four years since Marilyn Monroe’s death, and the industry needed a goddess.Camille Paglia, the feminist critic, described the poster photograph as “the indelible image of a woman as queen of nature.” Ms. Welch, she went on, was “a lioness — fierce, passionate and dangerously physical.”Ms. Welch played a Pleistocene-era cave woman in the 1966 movie that skyrocketed her to fame.Universal History Archive/UIG, via Getty ImagesHer Hollywood success began as much with this poster as with the film it publicized.Bettmann, via Getty ImagesWhen Playboy in 1998 named the 100 sexiest female stars of the 20th century, Ms. Welch came in third — right after Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield. Brigitte Bardot was fourth.The critics were often unkind. Throughout her career, Ms. Welch was publicly admired more for her anatomy than for her dramatic abilities. She even called her 2010 book, a memoir and self-help guide, “Beyond the Cleavage.”But when she had a chance to show off her comic abilities, they were kinder. Ms. Welch won a Golden Globe for her role in Richard Lester’s 1973 adaptation of “The Three Musketeers”; her character was a hopelessly klutzy 17th-century Frenchwoman, torn between two lives — as a landlord’s wife and the queen’s seamstress.Despite a career based largely on sex appeal, Ms. Welch repeatedly refused to appear nude onscreen. “Personally, I always hated feeling so exposed and vulnerable” in love scenes, she wrote in her memoir, noting that even when she appeared in a prestigious Merchant Ivory film (“The Wild Party,” 1975), the filmmakers, those acclaimed arbiters of art-house taste, pressured her to do a nude bedroom scene, to no avail.Ms. Welch won a Golden Globe for her role in Richard Lester’s 1973 adaptation of “The Three Musketeers.”Sunset Boulevard/Corbis, via Getty Images“I’ve definitely used my body and sex appeal to advantage in my work, but always within limits,” she said. But, she added, “I reserve some things for my private life, and they are not for sale.”Jo-Raquel Tejada was born in Chicago on Sept. 5, 1940, the oldest of three children of Armando Carlos Tejada, a Bolivian-born aeronautical engineer, and Josephine Sarah (Hall) Tejada, an American of English descent. They had met as students at the University of Illinois.When Raquel was 2, the family moved to Southern California for her father’s work in the war effort. At 7, encouraged by her mother, she enrolled at San Diego Junior Theater, where her only early disappointment was being cast in her first play as a boy. She began ballet classes the same year and continued to study dance for a decade.After graduating from La Jolla High School in San Diego, where her nickname was Rocky, she received a scholarship — thanks to success in local beauty pageants — to study theater at San Diego State College. But she dropped out at 19 to marry her high school boyfriend, James Wesley Welch. Because of her local celebrity, she landed a job as the “weather girl” on KFMB, a San Diego television station.Ms. Welch and Stephen Boyd in “Fantastic Voyage” (1966).20th Century Fox/Everett CollectionThe birth of her two children complicated her career plans, but she soon left her husband — “the most painful decision of my entire life,” she called it — and moved to Los Angeles to pursue acting. (They divorced in 1964.)She had hoped to move to New York instead, she recalled. But the trip would have been prohibitively expensive, and, anyway, she didn’t own a winter coat.It was not long before she had a contract with a major studio, 20th Century Fox. She had early hopes of making her big-screen debut in a James Bond movie; the producer Albert R. Broccoli wanted her for “Thunderball.” But that dream was quashed when she was cast in “Fantastic Voyage” (1966), a science fiction film about scientists reduced to microscopic size to travel inside a diseased human body. Then came “One Million Years B.C.,” and that did it.“There’s a certain thing about that white-hot moment of first fame that is just pure pain,” Ms. Welch said in an interview with Cigar Aficionado magazine in 2001. “It’s just not comfortable. I felt like I was supposed to be perfect. And because everybody was looking at me so hard, I felt there was so much to prove.”She appeared in some two dozen films over the next decade, perhaps most notably “Myra Breckinridge” (1970), based on Gore Vidal’s campy novel, in which she played a glamorous transgender woman, and “The Last of Sheila” (1973), a semi-campy murder mystery with a luxury-yacht setting and a script by Stephen Sondheim.Ms. Welch as a transgender woman in a scene from the 1973 movie “Myra Breckinridge.” At right is the film critic and sometime actor Rex Reed. Some of her most memorable roles were small ones. In “Bedazzled” (1967), Stanley Donen’s Faustian fantasy with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, she played Lust, one of the Seven Deadly Sins; in “The Magic Christian” (1969), with Peter Sellers and Ringo Starr, her character’s name was Mistress of the Whip.Ms. Welch had love scenes with the former football star Jim Brown in “100 Rifles” (1969), a western set in Mexico. She followed “The Three Musketeers” with its 1974 sequel, but those films never led to the sophisticated comedy opportunities she had hoped for. (She did, however, have a memorable chance to display her comedic side years later, when she played herself in a 1997 episode of “Seinfeld.”)After “Mother, Jugs and Speed” (1976), a farce about ambulance drivers (which also starred Bill Cosby and Harvey Keitel), her screen acting was limited mostly to television guest appearances.But she had already discovered the joys of stage work. Inspired after seeing Frank Sinatra’s nightclub act, Ms. Welch made her club debut, singing and dancing, at the Las Vegas Hilton in 1973. Eight years later she made her Broadway debut, hired as a two-week vacation replacement for Lauren Bacall in the hit musical “Woman of the Year.” Her reviews were so admiring (Mel Gussow’s in The New York Times ended by writing, “One hopes that Miss Welch will soon find a musical of her own”) that she returned the next year for a six-month stint in the role.“The first minute I stepped out on that stage and the people began applauding,” she told The Times later, “I just knew I’d beaten every bad rap that people had hung on me.” She returned to Broadway in 1997, replacing Julie Andrews for seven weeks in “Victor/Victoria.”Ms. Welch was a presenter at the 2010 Tony Awards ceremony at Radio City Music Hall in New York. She appeared on Broadway twice, in “Woman of the Year” and “Victor/Victoria.”Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesIn 1987, Ms Welch published “The Raquel Welch Total Beauty and Fitness Program,” which included exercises based on the principles of hatha yoga. She released a companion video with the same title.Few thought of Ms. Welch as a Latina actress, but she embraced that identity late in her career, starring as a melodramatic Mexican American aunt on “American Family,” a PBS series (2002). She learned to speak Spanish in her 60s; her father had not allowed the language to be spoken at home when she was growing up.Her last film was “How to Be a Latin Lover” (2017), a comic drama about an aging gigolo, played by Eugenio Derbez. She played his new target — a disarming, too-glamorous-to-be-true grandmother. Her final television appearances were on “Date My Dad” (2017), a Canadian American series, in a recurring role as the leading man’s Mexican mother-in-law.Ms. Welch was married and divorced four times. After Mr. Welch, her husbands were Patrick Curtis (1969-72), a producer; André Weinfeld (1980-90), a French director and producer; and Richard Palmer (1999-2008), a restaurateur.In addition to her son, Ms. Welch is survived by her daughter, Tahnee Welch, and a brother, Jimmy Tejada.In her late 70s, Ms. Welch was still followed by photographers, and reporters were still commenting on her appearance. In 2001, she answered questions about fashion and style in an interview with The Los Angeles Times.“Style has to have substance,” she said. “It has to have fire.” Praising synergy, instinct, imagination and attitude over trendiness and fashion-magazine dictates, she concluded, “It’s about being yourself on purpose.”Michael Levenson More

In a pairing that seems almost predestined, the actresses are sharing a stage in “The Seagull/Woodstock, NY,” a contemporary riff on Chekhov.In a show-business world full of square pegs and round holes, Parker Posey and Hari Nef are 12-sided dice.Posey, 54, has forged an unclassifiable career since her days as the “it” girl of 1990s independent cinema — mirrored in her oddball 2018 book, “You’re on an Airplane: A Self-Mythologizing Memoir.” She has created a series of indelible characters in Christopher Guest comedies, including “Best in Show,” but has also memorably brought her off-kilter rhythms to high-profile gigs like the flamboyant assistant district attorney Freda Black in the HBO Max mini-series “The Staircase” and the scheming Dr. Smith on the Netflix reboot of “Lost in Space.”As for Nef, 30, she landed the recurring role of Gittel in the Amazon series “Transparent” days after graduating from Columbia University, in 2015. The first openly transgender woman to receive a worldwide modeling contract, Nef also writes for various magazines, appeared in the Off Broadway play “Des Moines” in December, and has a couple of big projects arriving later this year: Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie” movie and the HBO series “The Idol” in which she’ll appear alongside the Weeknd and Lily-Rose Depp.From left, Daniel Oreskes, Posey, Amy Stiller and Nef in the New Group’s production of “The Seagull/Woodstock, NY,” which follows a group of theater friends who retreat to a house in the Catskills.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesIn a meeting that seems almost predestined, the pair are now sharing a stage in Thomas Bradshaw’s “The Seagull/Woodstock, NY,” a New Group production in previews at the Pershing Square Signature Center. (It is scheduled to open Feb. 28 and run through March 26.) A contemporary riff on Chekhov set in the Catskills, the play renames the charismatic, brittle actress Irina Arkadina as Irene (Posey), while the moody, romantic Masha has become Sasha (Nef).“They’re iconic in who they are and what they bring to their work,” the play’s director, Scott Elliott, said of Nef and Posey during a phone call. “They’re able to bring themselves to the parts so there’s very little separation between the actor and the role. Their humanity peeks through.”This quality helps explain why both New York-based actresses have a similar ability to connect with a character’s pathos, while also deploying unerring comic timing: Posey’s turns in those Guest films are pitch-perfect, while Nef was praised by Ben Brantley, in his review of Jeremy O. Harris’s play “‘Daddy,’” for delivering “the production’s sharpest satirical performance.”On Being Transgender in AmericaG.O.P.’s Anti-Transgender Push: Republican state lawmakers are pushing more sweeping anti-transgender bills than ever before, including bans on transition care for young adults up to 26.At School: Educators are facing new tensions over whether they should tell parents when students change their name, pronouns or gender expression at school.Feeling Unsafe: Intimidation and violence against gay and transgender Americans has spread this year — driven heavily, extremism experts say, by increasingly inflammatory political messaging.Puberty Blockers: These drugs can ease anguish among young transgender people and buy time to weigh options. But concerns are growing about their long-term effects.Naturally, there are generational differences. In a chat following a rehearsal, in January, Nef mused about taking Posey to a rave while Posey reminisced about visiting classic ballroom dance halls in Berlin. And yet they connect. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.“I want to be known for what I do as an actor,” said Nef, who also appeared this winter in the Off Broadway play “Des Moines.” Josefina Santos for The New York TimesWhat did you know of each other before “The Seagull/Woodstock, NY”?PARKER POSEY Hari Nef — oh, she was in “Transparent.” I remembered exactly what a performance that was and how much she lit up a scene. She changed the temperature of the room. I don’t keep up with a lot of things. I don’t have a lot of social media — I forgot my Instagram password a while ago and I tried to sign on a few times with the password I thought I remembered. But of course it was the wrong password.HARI NEF I knew so much about your work. “Party Girl” is a favorite, but I’d also seen you on “Search Party,” the whole gamut. A friend of mine said that you in “The House of Yes” is probably one of the greatest screen performances he’s ever seen. And he doesn’t play.POSEY When we met for the first read-through, Thomas said, “I’ve just got to tell you, ‘The House of Yes’ was a big inspiration for me and my writing.” That [script] was Wendy MacLeod’s Yale thesis. I didn’t know that playwriting can be so subversive.NEF I was always so attracted to you and your work because you were glamorous and you were dramatic and you were cool and you were distinctive and uncompromising, but not in a way that was obvious or traditional. You are beautiful and talented, that is obvious and traditional, but you always did things your way. I knew that if I was going to make a career as an actor, much less as an actress, I would have to do things non-traditionally. I didn’t have anyone quite exactly like me to look to so I looked at your work and I looked at Tilda [Swinton] and Chloë [Sevigny].POSEY I got lucky because at a time in the culture, you could do Off Broadway and afford your $700 a month apartment. And you could do independent movies: “It’s only 22 days, yeah, I’ll do that one.” It was kind of punk rock or like being in a band. Everyone was hanging out together and it was very organic. It was a little pocket of time that didn’t last that long.NEF I’ve been able to spend my entire fall and winter doing Off Broadway shows because I did Fashion Week before this and that visibility brings other opportunities. You can get paid three, four, five times what I’m going to make for both these plays combined by going to one dinner and being photographed there in an outfit. I post images of the films I like on Instagram not just because I find them inspiring and beautiful — I do — but it’s me going, “I want to be in movies like this.”POSEY You’re having the best of both worlds because to be online and have a social media presence is kind of to be your own magazine. I need to learn. But that time is a different time; it is your generation’s time right now.NEF You’re literally from the last moment where it was possible to be cool. Looking at that capital-C definition of cool all the way back to Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground, there’s talent, there’s glamour, there’s drive, there’s darkness. But there’s also a mystery and a specificity, and you lose that mystery and specificity by existing online. Because of the money thing and the rent thing, it has become essentially untenable to be cool, to be mysterious, to have that allure being an indie legend.Do you think it’s one thing to be perceived as cool and another to be taken seriously as an actor?NEF So much of my entry into this industry and this practice was around “Transparent.” I was riding on this flotilla of discourse about things that had nothing to do with what I could do as an actor. I thought I had to sing for my supper just for a seat at the table. Maybe I was right, to a certain extent, but it became like, “Do I really want people to know me by what I say or what I am or what my private medical history is?” No, I want to be known for what I do as an actor.POSEY Cool is when there’s something original or unexpected, or seems to have some kind of luck around it. Which your appearing on that show was: the unexpected, something new, something fresh. And that is not orchestrated — that’s luck. I see that now. I look at life and the path of an actor as having that luck. And I think that’s very enviable.NEF I’ve been very lucky. I remain lucky. The play I did before “Daddy” was my senior thesis in college: I played Arkadina in “The Seagull.” I had gone through what I had gone through in college and I never thought that I would get to go onstage to do Chekhov, much less play her. I knew that I probably wouldn’t be able to play a role like that again for many, many years — not because of age but because of the size and the heft of the role. I haven’t played a role like Arkadina since then, but I’m back doing “The Seagull” and that is more than was promised to me at that moment in history.“It’s interesting to observe how quick people are to villainize strong women,” Posey said of her character, Irene, a showbiz mom in “The Seagull/Woodstock, NY.” “The misogyny is on fire, still.”Josefina Santos for The New York TimesParker, what drew you to Arkadina/Irene?POSEY What attracted me the most to this part was the narcissistic mother, and the power that a mother has over her son. And she’s a showbiz mom, someone with a lot of heart and theatricality and all that. I’m so lucky as a middle-aged woman to be playing this part. It’s interesting to observe how quick people are to villainize strong women, how fun it is to see the worst. People love to call someone a bitch. I mean, the misogyny is on fire, still.NEF I play a lot of bitches.Why do you think that is?NEF Well, I’m no ingénue. I write, and a lot of the bitches I’ve played are also writers, thinkers. Smart. “Bitch” is often a fill-in for intelligent, for articulate, for opinionated, queer, not conventionally feminine or not conventionally beautiful. I think the “Barbie” stuff happened because I didn’t play bitchy and I didn’t play dumb and I didn’t play plastic in the audition.POSEY Having been cast as a female Dr. Smith, that was such a coup, I was so grateful for that gig. If you can live in Hollywood, it’s a lot easier to get cast and be a part of that world. But I wanted to walk around and see other people.NEF What is your relationship to the word “scene-stealer”? It’s the word that really follows me. It’s not a bad thing: It means I’m doing good work in small roles.POSEY That is a character actor making strong choices. When you have a small role in something big, you have to fill it in a certain way, and that’s its own thing.NEF If you’re a bold flavor — which I know I am — it’s more intuitive for people to see you as seasoning to the steak. I’d like to be the steak someday, but I know I have to earn it. So many of your iconic roles have been supporting and I’m wondering if you ever felt minimized by it.POSEY [long pause] Your 20s are really intense and then the culture changes and you’re, like, “Where am I going to fit in? I’m going to be in ‘Blade: Trinity’ playing a vampire? Never thought I’d see the day but yeah, I want to work and that’ll be interesting.” And then it’s the 40s. It’s heartbreaking when you become aware of just how intensely male-dominated our stories are, especially when you mature as a person and as a woman.NEF The shifts in the culture are by and large cosmetic when it comes to power and who gets the green light and who gets the sign-off for studio things. I can’t control the way I’m cast or how people see me.POSEY But you can see and acknowledge where you are. You’re in the mix. We’re so lucky to do what we love to do. A lot of people don’t.NEF That’s the bottom line of gratitude right now. This sounds corny but every day I’m so grateful to be here with you, to be here with everyone, to work through this winter onstage. It’s not guaranteed for anyone, much less someone like me or you. More

His first film — about two runners, one Christian, one Jewish, who compete at the 1924 Summer Olympics — won four Oscars, including for best picture.Hugh Hudson, a director whose first feature film, “Chariots of Fire,” won four Oscars in 1982, including for best picture, died on Friday in London. He was 86.His family announced the death to the British news media but did not cite a cause.“Chariots of Fire,” based on the true story of two British sprinters who competed at the 1924 Summer Olympics in Paris, was nominated for seven Oscars and won four, including for the composer Vangelis’s musical score and for the screenplay by Colin Welland, as well as for costume design. Mr. Hudson was nominated for best director but lost to Warren Beatty, the director of “Reds.”“Hugh Hudson was the fulcrum around which ‘Chariots of Fire’ was built,” David Puttnam, the film’s producer, wrote on Twitter after Mr. Hudson’s death.Mr. Hudson had an affinity for the leading characters of his film: Eric Liddell, a devout Christian who resisted pressure to run in the 100-meter race at the Olympics because the heats took place on Sunday, the Sabbath; and Harold Abrahams, the son of a Lithuanian Jew who vowed to use running to fight antisemitism. Each man won a gold medal — Mr. Liddell for the 400-meter race, which was held on a weekday, and Mr. Abrahams for the 100-meter sprint.“I think David Puttnam chose me because he sensed that I’d relate to the themes of class and racial prejudice,” Mr. Hudson told The Guardian in 2012. “I’d been sent to Eton” — the prestigious all-boys boarding school — “because my family had gone there for generations, but I hated all the prejudice.”To play Liddell and Abrahams, Mr. Puttnam refused to cast stars; instead, he chose Ian Charleson and Ben Cross, who were both best known for their television work.“If I put stars in it, the film would never have been successful,” he told the newspaper The Jewish Chronicle in 2011. “With unknown actors, you look at them afresh.”The most famous sequence in “Chariots of Fire,” which depicts about two dozen young men running on a beach in slow motion, is seen during the opening credits.20th Century Fox, via Everett CollectionThe most famous sequence of the movie is seen during the opening credits: about two dozen young men, clad in white shirts and shorts, running on a beach in slow motion, their faces creased with pain and exhilaration.During the shoot, on the West Sands Beach in St. Andrews, Scotland, Mr. Hudson blasted Vangelis’s “L’Enfant” over loudspeakers. He wanted it to be the film’s theme, but Vangelis promised to compose something original, according to the online publication Art of the Title.The result was an instrumental blend of acoustic piano and synthesizer that provided a lush, pulsating accompaniment to the dramatic scene of young men in training. The song spent 28 weeks on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart, peaking at No. 1.Hugh Donaldson-Hudson was born on Aug. 25, 1936, in London to Michael Donaldson-Hudson, an insurance broker, and Jacynth (Ellerton) Donaldson-Hudson. His parents divorced when he was young. He attended a boarding school before entering Eton, where he dropped “Donaldson” from his surname.He served in the British Army’s Royal Dragoon Guards and worked in advertising in the late 1950s before he started making documentaries and television commercials, some for Ridley Scott Associates. Alan Parker, who also worked for Mr. Scott, hired Mr. Hudson as a second-unit director on “Midnight Express,” his 1978 film about an American student imprisoned for trying to smuggle hashish out of Turkey. Mr. Puttnam was one of that film’s producers.Mr. Hudson’s best-known commercials included one in which Joan Collins splatters herself with a glass of Cinzano white wine, to the delight of another actor, Leonard Rossiter, seated beside her on an airplane; another showed robots building Fiat Stradas in a factory in Turin, Italy, to the music of Figaro’s entrance aria from “The Barber of Seville.”Mr. Hudson followed “Chariots of Fire,” with “Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes” (1984), which received three Oscar nominations, including one for Ralph Richardson for best supporting actor. Writing in The New York Times, Vincent Canby called it an “unusually intelligent and serious entertainment for the mass market.”But his next film, “Revolution” (1985), starring Al Pacino as a fur trapper caught up in the American Revolution, was considered a flop.His other films, none of which did well at the box office, included “My Life So Far” (1999), about a family’s life on an estate in Scotland after World War I; “I Dreamed of Africa” (2000), the story of a divorced Italian socialite who moves to Kenya; and “Finding Altamira” (2016), about the discovery of Paleolithic cave paintings in northern Spain in 1879.In 2011, Mr. Hudson made a documentary for BBC Four, “Rupture: A Matter of Life or Death,” about his wife, the actress Maryam d’Abo, who had recovered from a near-fatal brain aneurysm.Ms. d’Abo survives him, as does a son, Thomas, from his marriage to Susan Michie, which ended in divorce.In 2012, “Chariots of Fire” was adapted by the writer Mike Bartlett as a stage play in London, first at the Hampstead Theater and then at the Gielgud Theater on the West End.The stage version was Mr. Hudson’s idea, to coincide with London’s hosting of the Summer Olympics that year. “Issues of faith, of refusal to compromise, standing up for one’s beliefs, achieving something for the sake of it, with passion, and not just for fame or financial gain,” he told The London Evening Standard at the time, “are even more vital today.” More

A slew of well-off New Yorkers, many of them not very nice, sing the praises of their “Boswell,” David Patrick Columbia, in a new documentary.David Patrick Columbia writes a near-daily online column called “New York Social Diary,” which chronicles the galas, dinners and benefits frequented by high-income patrician folk. His is a world in which people still answer to “Muffie.” Directed by Matthew Miele, who often quizzes his subject in a tone of almost goofy awe, “Last Night in New York” invites Columbia to explain his life and work.Columbia, who appears to be in his 70s and looks like William Hurt preparing to play Samuel Beckett, speaks of his working class background and a family history that includes abuse and murder. He can be mildly moving, as when recalling his friendship with Debbie Reynolds. But with Columbia at its center — he insists he’s not overly impressed by the people who constitute his primary subject — the movie can’t help but function as an apologia for the ruling class. Early in the picture Columbia relates the high-society background of the music producer John Hammond (he was part Vanderbilt and raised in an Upper East Side mansion), perhaps hoping to make the point that rich people can be genuinely useful.
One doesn’t expect to have one’s stomach churned by such a documentary, but then — wham! — Taki Theodoracopulos, the writer and sometime publisher whose work has been known to steer into race-baiting (to put it mildly), turns up. Like several of the other interviewees in the picture, his insights are affecting, but not in a good way. “He’s the only man who appreciates John O’Hara,” Theodoracopulos says of Columbia. This is, well, objectively not true.Musing on previous society chroniclers, Blair Sobel, a colleague of Columbia’s, says, “Dominick Dunne and Truman [Capote] were bitchy.” She continues, “David is a handsome man. Those guys were trolls.” Barbara Tober, a board chair of the New York Museum of Art and Design, chimes in, without a hint of irony or humor, “If you are in ‘New York Social Diary,’ you exist. If you’re not, you don’t.”Last Night in New YorkNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 38 minutes. Rent or buy on most major platforms. More

Two women battle an unusually persistent admirer in this enjoyably offbeat supernatural comedy.“Jethica,” a brazenly odd yet gently appealing horror-comedy, is difficult to describe without spoiling its swerving tone or smartly spaced reveals. Working with pandemic-influenced themes of loss and trauma and isolation, the director Pete Ohs (who collaborated on the script with his small cast) delivers an off-kilter take on the kind of haunting that all too many women have experienced.After a shocking highway accident, Elena (a perfect Callie Hernandez) is hiding out in her grandmother’s trailer in the desert outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. A chance meeting with an old school friend, Jessica (Ashley Denise Robinson), results in Elena offering to put her up for a few nights. Jessica has fled California to escape Kevin (Will Madden), the stalker whose lisp gives the film its title — and also, unfortunately, siphons the chill from Kevin’s frantic declarations of devotion when he suddenly shows up outside the trailer.Reacting to Kevin with the cool resignation of someone accustomed to dealing with men like this, Elena, whose grandmother was a mystic, knows that getting rid of him will require more than police intervention. On hand to help is Benny (Andy Faulkner), a strange dude we have seen shuffling back and forth on the highway, blank-eyed and with a druggy stoop. For reasons that will soon become apparent, Benny might be the only person who can understand Kevin’s predicament.At once dryly funny and surprisingly poignant, “Jethica” uses the paranormal as a metaphor for abusive male behavior. The film’s deadpan perspective and unhurried pacing can diffuse its surprises, but Ohs has an offbeat style that’s fresh and fun. Between the blue-bronze sweep of sky and dusty yellow ground, his snaking, canted camera summons the creepiness the story needs and any stalking victim will recognize.JethicaNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 12 minutes. Watch on Fandor. More

“Safety Last!,” the 1923 Harold Lloyd movie best known for the dangerous scene, marks its centennial.It is one of the most enduring images from the silent film era, and arguably the movie stunt that led to the cliffhanging, skyscraper-loving action hero of today: the actor Harold Lloyd dangling from the hands of a clock on the side of an office building.The film, “Safety Last!,” released in April 1923, was in many ways Lloyd’s zenith as a major Hollywood star. He is said to have come up with the idea of dangling from the side of a building after seeing a man scale one in Los Angeles.But Lloyd wanted the stunt to be even more outrageous on film. Enter the clock.“Harold was such a realist, and every scenario in his movies had to be a real event or a real situation for a person to be in,” his granddaughter, Suzanne Lloyd, 71, said during a recent video interview from her Los Angeles home. “The clock was another tool on the side of the building to perpetuate the stunt. He thought, ‘I can really play off of that.’”And play he did. Lloyd’s character, The Boy, thinks up the idea of scaling a department store to win $1,000 offered by its manager to increase business — and hopes the stunt also will help him win The Girl. He begins his ascent, battling a flock of pigeons, a swinging window and a friend named Limpy inside the building who becomes as much of a danger as a helper.As The Boy pauses on a window ledge, a buffoonish moment with Limpy causes him to fall back, saved only by grabbing the clock’s hands, which were conveniently positioned at 2:45 (when the longer minute hand is parallel to the ground).Timely News and Features About Watches Rolex Resales: The watch giant has started its own certified pre-owned program, which many in the industry say will change the secondhand market forever. Casio G-Shock, at Home: A visit to the factory in Japan where most of these chunky and durable watches are made. Is That Watch Cardboard? Using humble materials, a Hong Kong artist makes his own versions of high-end Swiss timepieces to have “a bit more fun.” What Are You Wearing? A new European Union regulation is expected to change the industry’s longstanding culture of secrecy. More on Watches: Stories on trends and issues in the industry.For filming, according to Ms. Lloyd, a safety net was constructed on a roof about one floor below the action, though the scene was shot to look as though there was a sheer drop to the bustling streets far below. (Reports at the time said many in the audience covered their eyes or even fainted, and ambulances were parked outside some movie theaters.)The Boy holds on, even as the clock dial tilts down and he is left hanging from the minute hand. There are a few failed attempts and a lot of slapstick, but, with the help of a rope, he finally makes it to the roof where The Girl is waiting with a kiss.“The 1920s was an era of stunts, from planes to climbing buildings,” said Steven K. Hill, a curator at the UCLA Film & Television Archive in Los Angeles, which has been instrumental in saving and restoring hundreds of silent films, including a collaboration with the Criterion Collection on “Safety Last!” in 2012.“Part of its appeal is that he’s not dressed like a construction worker,” Mr. Hill said. “He wears a straw hat and glasses and is well dressed. It can be seen as an image of his need for upward mobility.”The Boy certainly is in pursuit of money — but for love. “The subplot in all of his movies was always about getting the girl,” Ms. Lloyd said. “Harold was really a romantic lead.”Not only did The Boy get The Girl in “Safety Last!,” but Lloyd and the actress, Mildred Davis, were married shortly before the film was released. They stayed married until her death in 1969; Lloyd died in 1971. The couple had three children (Ms. Lloyd’s mother was Gloria, the eldest).What makes the clock stunt even more impressive, Ms. Lloyd said, is that her grandfather was hanging on with only eight fingers. In 1919 he had lost part of his right index finger, his entire right thumb and part of his palm when he attempted to light a cigarette from the fuse of what he thought was a prop bomb for a publicity photo. But the bomb exploded, temporarily blinding him and putting him in the hospital for about two weeks. For years he wore a prosthetic glove to mask the injury in movies, but not in his personal life.“I remember as a girl that he always wore a Rolex watch, but because he only had three fingers on his right hand, he would have to get someone to buckle the watch on his left hand,” Ms. Lloyd recalled. “Years later, he had a custom-made Rolex that was made of white gold and had a white face with silver numerals. And it didn’t have a clasp. It had a flexible watch band so that he didn’t have to ask anyone to help him.”Harold Lloyd with his granddaughter, Suzanne Lloyd, at Greenacres, the family estate in Beverly Hills, Calif. She said she grew up around clocks thanks to her grandfather. “We had a lot of clocks in our house, including a jade clock in his den,” she said.via Suzanne LloydLloyd’s fondness for clocks was evident to Ms. Lloyd as she grew up at Greenacres, her grandparents’ famous 44-room mansion in Beverly Hills, Calif. It was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1982 and is now owned by the billionaire financier Ron Burkle (who also purchased Neverland, Michael Jackson’s California estate, in 2020).“We had a lot of clocks in our house, including a jade clock in his den,” she said. “I remember once going watch shopping with him in Montreux, Switzerland, around 1961. He bought me a little blue watch with filigree that I wore on a chain around my neck. He later bought me a Cartier Tank watch when I was 18.”Lloyd’s love of clocks might have been about making sure everything — and everyone — ran on time.“Harold was always punctual, and my mom was constantly late,” Ms. Lloyd said with a laugh. “He bought several watches for her and adjusted the hands, and sometimes changed the time on the clock in her bedroom.”“Harold would always say, ‘Move that clock up in Glo’s room to get her here on time,’” she said. “It worked!” More

Listen to This ArticleTo hear more audio stories from publications like The New York Times, download Audm for iPhone or Android.As an American, I know what it feels like to arrive at a theme park. The totalizing consumerist embrace. The blunt-force, world-warping, escapist delight. I have known theme parks with entrance gates like international borders and ticket prices like mortgage payments and parking lots the size of Cleveland. I have been to Disney World, an alternate reality that basically occupies its own tax zone, with its own Fire Department and its own agriculture — a place where, before you’ve even entered, you see a 100-foot-tall electrical pole along the freeway with Mickey Mouse ears. This is a theme park’s job: to swallow the universe. To replace our boring, aimless, frustrating world with a new one made just for us.Imagine my confusion, then, when I arrived at Ghibli Park, Japan’s long-awaited tribute to the legendary animation of Studio Ghibli.Like filmgoers all over the world, I had been fantasizing about a visit to Ghibli Park since the project was announced more than five years ago. I tracked the online rumors, inhaled the concept drawings, scrutinized the maps. Ghibli’s animation has always felt destined to be turned into a theme park. Hayao Miyazaki, the studio’s co-founder, is one of the all-time great imaginary world-builders — right up there with Lewis Carroll, Jim Henson, Ursula K. Le Guin, Charles Schulz, Maurice Sendak and composers of the Icelandic sagas. Even Miyazaki’s most fantastical creations — a castle with giant metal chicken legs, a yellow bus with the body of a cat — feel somehow thick and plausible and real.Miyazaki started Studio Ghibli in 1985, out of desperation, when he and his co-founders, Isao Takahata and Toshio Suzuki, couldn’t find a studio willing to put out their work. The films were brilliant but notoriously artsy, expensive, labor-intensive. Miyazaki is maniacally detail-obsessed. He agonizes over his children’s cartoons as if he were Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. He will pour whole oceans of effort and time and money into the smallest effects: the way a jumping fish twists as it leaps, individual faces in a crowd reacting to an earthquake, the physics of tiles during a rooftop chase scene. Miyazaki insists that, although few viewers will be conscious of all this work, every viewer will feel it. And we do. Those tiny touches, adding up across the length of a film, anchor his fantasies in the actual world.“Ghibli” is an Italian word, derived from Arabic, for a hot wind that blows across Libya. The plan was for the company to blow like a hot wind through the stagnant world of animation. It succeeded. For more than 35 years, Studio Ghibli has been the great eccentric juggernaut of anime, cranking out classic after odd classic: “Castle in the Sky” (1986), “My Neighbor Totoro” (1988), “Kiki’s Delivery Service” (1989), “Only Yesterday” (1991), “Princess Mononoke” (1997), “Spirited Away” (2001). In Japan, the release of a new Ghibli film is a national event, and the studio’s most popular characters are ubiquitous: plump Totoro, mysterious No Face, the grinning Cat Bus, googly-eyed soot sprites. As a kind of shorthand, Miyazaki is often called the Walt Disney of Japan.Waiting for the Cat Bus in “My Neighbor Totoro.”I was dying to see, in person, how a Ghibli theme park might work. How could these surreal worlds possibly be translated into reality? What would it feel like to lose ourselves inside them?In November, when Ghibli Park finally opened, I made sure to get myself there. And so, after many years, and much traveling — at long last — I found myself stepping into the wonders of Ghibli Park.Or did I? Did I find myself stepping into the wonders of Ghibli Park?My first impression was not awe or majesty or surrender or consumerist bliss. It was confusion. For a surprisingly long time after I arrived, I could not tell whether or not I had arrived. There was no security checkpoint, no ticket booths, no ambient Ghibli soundtrack, no mountainous Cat Bus statue. Instead, I found myself stepping out of a very ordinary train station into what seemed to be a large municipal park. A sea of pavement. Sports fields. Vending machines. It looked like the kind of place you might go on a lazy weekend to see a pretty good softball tournament.There were some buildings around, but it was hard to tell which of them might or might not be Ghibli-related. In the distance, the arc of a Ferris wheel broke the horizon — but this, I would discover, had nothing to do with Ghibli Park. I wandered into and out of a convenience store. I saw some children wearing Totoro hats and started to follow them. It felt like some kind of bizarre treasure hunt — a theme park where the theme was searching for the theme park. Which was, in a way, perfectly Studio Ghibli: no pleasure without a little challenge. And so I headed down the hill, trying to find my way in.The magazine sent the Japanese photographer Rinko Kawauchi to Ghibli Park on a day when it was closed to the public, and she took along her daughter and some friends. Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesLike many non-Japanese viewers, I first encountered Studio Ghibli through the 2001 film “Spirited Away.” It is Miyazaki’s masterpiece, a popular and critical supertriumph that won the Oscar for best animated feature and became, for two decades, the highest-grossing film in Japanese history. Critics all over the world simultaneously fell out of their armchairs to praise it in the most ecstatic possible terms. Nigel Andrews of The Financial Times rated it six out of five stars, justifying this mathematical impossibility (“Exception must be made for the exceptional”) with a flood of rapturous beat poetry: “What is the film about? It is about 122 minutes and 12 billion years. It sums up all existence and gives us a mythology good for every society, amoebal, animal or human, that ever lived.” And he offered the ultimate existentialist blurb: “Rush now while life lasts.”I, on the other hand, am not a film critic. I am an ordinary American, someone raised on MTV and “S.N.L.” and CGI. Which means that my entertainment metabolism has been carefully tuned to digest the purest visual corn syrup. Sarcastic men with large guns. Yearning princesses with grumpy fathers. Explosive explosions explosively exploding. When I watched “Spirited Away,” at first I had no idea what I was looking at. In the simplest terms, the film tells the coming-of-age story of a 10-year-old girl named Chihiro. It takes place in a haunted theme park — where, almost immediately, Chihiro’s parents are turned into pigs, and Chihiro is forced to sign away her name and perform menial labor in a bathhouse for ghosts (ghosts, spirits, monsters, gods — it’s hard to know exactly what to call them, and the film never explains). A full plot summary would be impossible. The story moves at a strange, tumbling pace, with elements connecting and separating and floating around, revolving and recombining, as if in a dream.A bathhouse for ghosts in “Spirited Away.”But plot isn’t really the point. The majestic thing about “Spirited Away” is the world itself. Miyazaki’s creativity is radically dense; every little molecule of the film seems charged with invention. The haunted bathhouse attracts a proliferation of very weird beings: giant yellow ducklings, a sentient slime-blob, fanged monsters with antlers, a humanoid radish spirit who appears to be wearing an upside-down red bowl for a hat. There is a trio of green disembodied heads, with black mustaches and angry faces, who bounce around and pile up on top of one another and grunt disapprovingly at Chihiro. There are so many creatures, stuffed into so many nooks and crannies, that it seems as if Miyazaki has been spending multiple eternities, on multiple planets, running parallel evolutionary timelines, just so he can sketch the most interesting results. As a viewer, you have to surrender to the abundance. Crowd-surf into the hallucination.Chihiro and the soot sprites in “Spirited Away.”Miyazaki knows that his work can be difficult — and he is, at all times, righteously defiant. “I must say that I hate Disney’s works,” he once declared. “The barrier to both the entry and exit of Disney films is too low and too wide. To me, they show nothing but contempt for the audience.” At home, Miyazaki is a celebrity, recognizable to the point of parody: caterpillar eyebrows, heavy, dark-rimmed glasses, sculpted white beard, cigarette. In 2019, the TV network NHK — Japan’s rough equivalent to the BBC — aired a four-part documentary chronicling Miyazaki’s creative process. It is a festival of grouchy agony, full of insults (“He’s not an adult yet,” he says of his then 39-year-old son Goro) and self-reproach (“I feel like a comb with missing teeth”). Miyazaki is the curmudgeon’s curmudgeon. Over the decades, he has dismissed everything from iPads (“disgusting”) to 1980s Japanese animation (“resembles the food served on jumbo-jet airliners”) to art created by artificial intelligence (“I strongly feel that this is an insult to life itself”). Many artists have high standards. Miyazaki’s are in outer space.Disney is, famously, a vast corporate content farm, with all artistic choices carefully examined by an assembly line of executives, marketers, focus groups, etc. Whereas Miyazaki’s vision is absolutely his own. Despite its global success, Studio Ghibli has remained quirky and unpredictable, a direct reflection of the personalities of its founders. To this day, Miyazaki insists on meticulously hand-drawing his own storyboards. When his sketches go to Ghibli’s larger team for the technical work of animation, he checks every image, and if he sees something he dislikes he will erase it and draw right over it — explaining the whole time why it was wrong. For as long as he possibly could, Miyazaki resisted computer animation. He still refuses, on principle, to make sequels. He has long told parents that children should not watch his films more than once a year. (“Whatever experiences we provide them,” Miyazaki has said, “are in a sense stealing time from them that otherwise might be spent in a world where they go out and make their own discoveries or have their own personal experiences.”)Miyazaki is now 82. He has tried multiple times, without success, to pass the creative torch. “I trained successors, but I couldn’t let go,” he once said. “I devoured them. I devoured their talent. … That was my destiny. I ate them all.” Even his elder son, Goro, has tried his hand at directing — with mixed results. Miyazaki has abruptly retired, and then just as suddenly unretired, by my count, four times. He is currently finishing work on a new film titled “How Do You Live?” It is now in production and should be out in Japan this summer.All of which raises some huge questions for Studio Ghibli — questions so deep they are practically theological. What will happen to the company when the great Miyazaki is gone? Can such idiosyncratic imaginative worlds outlive the mind that made them? Would a theme park help (as it did for Walt Disney) to answer both of those questions?More on the Walt Disney CompanyDeSantis-Disney Rift: In the latest development in a battle between the Florida governor and Disney, Ron DeSantis has gained control of the board that oversees development at Walt Disney World, a move that restricts the autonomy of Disney over its theme-park complex.Quarterly Earnings Report: In Disney’s first earnings report since Bob Iger returned as chief executive, the company exceeded Wall Street’s expectations. But thousands of employees are expected to be laid off.Board Seat Bid Ends: The activist investor Nelson Peltz has ended his attempt to install himself or his son on Disney’s board and shake up the company.Splash Mountain’s Closure: As Disney takes steps to erase the racist back story of the Walt Disney World ride, some are claiming to be selling water from the attraction online.“Spirited Away” is now more than 20 years old. Since that first confused encounter, I have watched it many, many times. I still find it strange and scary and disorienting — but also uplifting. Despite his crankiness, Miyazaki has always defined his artistic mission in inspirational terms. “I want to send a message of cheer to all those wandering aimlessly through life,” he has written. So when the real world gets bad — when I feel depressed, stressed, misanthropic, crushed by politics or deadlines — I often find myself stepping once more into Chihiro’s world. I find myself wanting to float around in Miyazaki’s imagination as the spirits float in the herbal pools of the “Spirited Away” bathhouse. I want to snuggle into the world of Ghibli like Totoro snuggling into a bed of ferns.An elevator tower renovated to include elements from films like “Castle in the Sky.”Rinko Kawauchi for The New York Times‘‘Do you recognize this?” one of my Ghibli Park guides asked me.I did. Of course I did.We were staring at a big old-fashioned Japanese gate: red, with dark brown wood and a green tile roof. It was a structure straight out of “Spirited Away.” Waiting on the other side, framed perfectly in the doorway, was one of my favorite things in all of Miyazaki: a squat stone statue, inscrutable and smiling.My guides were two friendly members of Ghibli’s P.R. team, Mai Sato and Seika Wang. I met them up at the train station, after I finished puttering around the area, lost. They confirmed that yes, I had come to the right place. Unlike any theme park I’d ever been to, Ghibli Park was located inside a larger park, Expo 2005 Aichi Commemorative Park. And, like a very polite houseguest, it had tucked itself in without making much of a fuss. Its signage was subtle, and its attractions were spread around, at great distances from one another. The guides told me that our tour would take approximately four hours.As my body passed through the “Spirited Away” gate, I felt a slight, shimmering thrill. That smiling statue on the other side was a spirit shrine, guardian of the other world — the first real sign, in the film, that Chihiro’s life is about to be transformed. As we approached, I wanted to stop and take a selfie and text it to everyone I know. But other tourists were doing that, and more people, over to the side, were waiting politely for their turn. So the guides and I walked on.This is when we entered the forest.If you want Miyazaki to love you, it might help to be a tree. He has a well-documented reverence for nature. Rivers and mountains and oceans are practically the heroes of many Ghibli films. Miyazaki’s forests are so distinctive that certain mossy shades of green automatically make me think of them. In fact, Miyazaki often compares storytelling itself to a tree. It’s not just about flashy ornamentation, he likes to say, it’s about the deep invisible roots that support the trunk that supports the branches — all of which, in the end, allows you to hang the ornaments that everyone will admire.Totoro, Satsuki and Mei with trees in “My Neighbor Totoro.”Ghibli Park was designed, as the official website puts it, in “close consultation with the surrounding forest.” My guides told me that, amazingly, not a single tree was cut down. Again I thought of Disney World, which was created at the expense of whole ecosystems — square miles denatured and paved to make way for lucrative, user-friendly worlds of plastic and metal. Ghibli Park, by contrast, is largely unchanged forest. Seeing its attractions involves walking, endlessly, through wooded paths. Some of those paths are new or recently improved. But many seem old. The forest’s trees were thin and twisty; they stretched over our heads like sunlit hallways. They tangled off into the distance. They just stood there, being trees. Staircases, wooden and stone, branched off up and down hills. Without my guides, I would have had no idea where to go. As we walked, the American in me kept wondering about lawsuits. Surely, someone would someday trip on a root and fall down a staircase. And wouldn’t that person blame Ghibli Park? At one point, we saw a warning sign, attached to a post, telling people to beware of snakes and hornets. It listed a phone number to call if you got into trouble.Months before, in my first meeting with Studio Ghibli’s P.R. team about a possible visit, I was told that the studio would be happy to work with me but had one serious concern. If The New York Times published an article about Ghibli Park, they said, it might make more people want to come visit. This struck them as a problem. Like many Ghibli products, Ghibli Park is impishly non-user-friendly. This is true for people in Japan, and even more so for international visitors. Consider, for instance, its location. Unlike Tokyo Disneyland or Universal Studios Japan (in Osaka), Ghibli Park is not located in a tourist hub. Instead, it sits on the outskirts of an unglamorous city called Nagoya, in a region famous for being the home of Toyota — basically, the Detroit of Japan. And the park is not even in Nagoya proper. From my hotel in the center of the city, it took me an hour, and three different trains, to reach Ghibli Park. The website suggests taking the train because the park has no dedicated parking lot.The website also does its best to lower expectations, declaring immediately, “There are no big attractions or rides in Ghibli Park.” The surrounding grounds are public and free to walk around, all day long. There are only three paid areas in Ghibli Park, and by theme-park standards the admission fees are laughably low: the equivalent of about $10 to $20 for each area. But tickets, at that time, were nearly impossible to get. There was a lottery system, and they were sold out for months in advance.Occasionally, my guides would lead me to a modest little statue. “Do you recognize this?” they would ask. And it would be something from a Ghibli film: sitting on a bench, Mei’s hat and ear of corn from “My Neighbor Totoro”; standing near a tree, a tanuki from “Pom Poko”; on a table, Sosuke’s bucket from “Ponyo.” There are 15 of these objects, they told me, scattered throughout the park. A little fan-service scavenger hunt. I would pause, identify the item and take a photo. Other tourists would stop and do the same. And then we would all keep walking through the trees.Tanuki in “Pom Poko.”After a while I told my guides, only half joking, that Ghibli Park seemed like an extremely elaborate way to lure people out into the middle of an obscure Japanese forest.Yes, they said. That is basically correct.Studio Ghibli did not offer me an interview with Hayao Miyazaki. He was busy with his final film, and he almost never agrees to do interviews anymore. Besides, they said, Ghibli Park was not really his project. The man in charge was Goro — Hayao Miyazaki’s son.In person, Goro Miyazaki is almost the opposite of his father. Miyazaki the elder is a spectacle — perpetually in motion, smoking and agonizing and clutching his hair. He looks like a Miyazaki character. Goro, by contrast, looks like an absolutely normal man. He is 56, clean-shaven, slim. He sits still and speaks softly, modestly, with none of his father’s bombast. His eyes are like deep pools.Goro and I met at Ghibli headquarters, a leafy compound, designed by Hayao Miyazaki himself, that is spread over several blocks of a quiet Tokyo suburb. We sat in a meeting room featuring shelves of animation books and statuettes of Ghibli characters. Goro arrived carrying multiple large folders: his sketches and plans for Ghibli Park.The Miyazakis, father and son, have what you might call a fraught relationship. Both men have been surprisingly open about this. During Goro’s childhood, the great animator was mostly absent, cranking out masterpieces. The little boy got to know his father like the rest of Japan, by watching his films. “I just wanted him to be there,” Goro says in the NHK documentary, with great feeling. “He feels alive only when he’s making a film.” And then he adds, resigned, “He can’t change now.”“I owe that little boy an apology,” Hayao Miyazaki says.Goro Miyazaki, son of Hayao, at Studio Ghibli in Koganei, Japan.Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesGoro, meanwhile, was raised by his mother, Akemi Miyazaki. She taught him to love the outdoors. They were always going hiking, and they spent summers up in her father’s mountain cabin. In high school, Goro joined the mountaineering club. In college, he studied forestry. After graduation, he worked in landscape architecture. In his 30s, Goro led the construction of a quirky little Ghibli Museum in suburban Tokyo, designed by his father, which opened in 2001.This is something father and son could share: a reverence for nature. And Goro brought this reverence to his design for Ghibli Park.“There was a time when we considered making our own version of Disneyland,” he told me. “Here is the Totoro area. People can ride the Cat Bus. That’s great. But what about the environment around it?”After all, the action of “My Neighbor Totoro” is inseparable from its natural setting: thick trees, grass fields, rice paddies. Totoro drops acorns everywhere as a kind of calling card. To love Totoro is to love not just a single creature but a whole habitat.“It doesn’t feel right to have that kind of idyllic landscape in a theme park,” Goro continued. “You can’t have a rice field that’s green all year round.”What about plastic? I asked.“A plastic rice field contradicts the whole idea of Totoro’s world,” he said.In Tokyo, I went to see Toshio Suzuki, the yin to Miyazaki’s yang, the most important person in the company’s history aside from Miyazaki and Takahata. Although he has held many titles (producer, president), most crucially Suzuki has functioned as a kind of Miyazaki whisperer: a combination of friend, critic, right-hand man, creative consultant, collaborator and business partner. When Miyazaki strains a major deadline, or decides out of nowhere to retire, or when he can’t decide how to end a film — Suzuki is the one who figures out how to make it all OK, to stretch budgets and schedules, to hire or lay off whole teams of people.I met Suzuki at his office, the doorway of which features a Totoro welcome mat. We sat together at a long table, speaking through an interpreter.While Miyazaki is famously grouchy, Suzuki is open and affable. He has a deep, hearty, easy laugh. He loves to talk — so much so that he hosts his own weekly radio show.Suzuki told me that the story of Ghibli Park began, almost by accident, 20 years ago — with a quirky one-off project. It was Suzuki’s idea. For years, he had been fantasizing about building a real-world simulacrum of the cartoon house from “My Neighbor Totoro.” This was partly nostalgia: Suzuki actually grew up, in Nagoya, in a house like that — an old-style Japanese country house, with traditional woodworking. Finally, the real world gave him a perfect excuse. He learned that in 2005 a big World Expo would be held in this municipal park on the edge of Nagoya. Its organizers were inviting companies from around the world, including Ghibli, to create pavilions. And so Suzuki said: Yes. We will build this house.The expo organizers loved the idea. Maybe you could put a Totoro in the house, they said. Or some of those cute little soot sprites.No! Suzuki said. (In our interview, he actually yelled this right out loud, in English: “No!”) He was only interested in building the house. No characters. Nothing fantastical. Just the house! To this day, Suzuki is not sure why he was so adamant about that. He insists it was not some great principled stand. He just felt like saying no. When it came time to name the place, he didn’t name it after Totoro — he named it after the film’s two human children. “Satsuki and Mei’s House.”Satsuki and Mei arriving at their house in “My Neighbor Totoro.”To build the house, Suzuki enlisted Goro. Goro may not have had his father’s animation genius — no one really did — but he had other things. A similar obsession with detail. An iron will. Goro knew construction. He had a good practical head on his shoulders. He had built the Ghibli Museum. He would be able to solve any logistical problems. And he had people skills that his father lacked.“The one thing that’s very different from Goro to his father, what sets them apart, is how they use staff members,” Suzuki told me. “Hayao Miyazaki is maybe not a great leader. But Goro is very good at making the team function. He’s very good at bringing the best out of each team member.”The whole Totoro house project was a lark. Would the public even be interested in visiting an elaborate wooden replica of a house from a cartoon? Suzuki had no idea. But popularity wasn’t really the point. The impulse was deeper than that.Well, it turned out that the public was interested. In 2005, when the World Expo opened, Satsuki and Mei’s House was an instant sensation. Such huge floods of Miyazaki fans poured in that everyone worried the house would be ruined. Its artisanal woodworking was not designed for so much traffic. They imposed a limit: 800 visitors a day. But the competition for those 800 spots was so fierce that, eventually, the expo instituted a lottery system. On an average day, 600,000 people applied. Everyone in Japan seemed to want to put their physical bodies inside the world of Studio Ghibli.Suzuki is still amazed by this. It was just a house! When the expo ended, he said, Ghibli received calls from all over Japan — from north to south, Hokkaido to Okinawa. Everyone wanted Satsuki and Mei’s House to be moved to their city. Suzuki even received a call from the city of Toyota, which was interested in moving the house inside the car company’s headquarters.What on earth was this insatiable hunger? I asked Suzuki. Why would so many people go to so much trouble to stand inside an ordinary house?It’s an excellent question, he said. In fact, that’s exactly what the head of Toyota asked him. Toyota hoped that, if they could figure out the source of this public frenzy, it might help them sell their next car.But Suzuki had no good explanation. And in the end he told everyone that Satsuki and Mei’s House would stay in Nagoya. Many years later, this odd building would become the anchor, and the guiding spirit, of Ghibli Park.Satsuki and Mei’s house, an exact replica of the home from “My Neighbor Totoro” (1988).Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesGoro started planning Ghibli Park in 2017. It was similar to Satsuki and Mei’s House — but much bigger, much more complicated. It would require all of his skills. His ability to lead teams of actual humans. His ability to haul his father’s imaginary structures, kicking and screaming, into reality.Building that Totoro house, Goro told me, had been an incredible hassle. Architecturally, he discovered, the cartoon structure made very little sense. It was tricky to come up with a design that would be both recognizable to viewers of “My Neighbor Totoro” while also functioning as a real-world house. The traditional woodworking required a highly select group of artisans. They were proud, opinionated and stubborn. They argued with Goro over all kinds of things: the blueprints, the height of the ceilings. They didn’t want to build a temporary structure, so Goro had to promise to protect it even after the expo ended. Studio Ghibli had planned to paint the house when it was finished, to make it look plausibly old. But the artisans hated that idea and insisted on aging it in their own way: burning and rubbing the wood, lacquering it with persimmon juice. To make everything worse, the expo’s roads were blocked by construction, so carpenters had to drag supplies over a hill. Everything took longer than it was supposed to. When the expo auditors saw the expenses, they thought there had to be some mistake. It’s not possible to spend so much money on a single house! they said. We could have built a beautiful modern house for a fraction of this cost.Inside Satsuki and Mei’s house, where visitors can open drawers and closets and find real dishes in the cupboards.Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesNevertheless, Goro persisted. He overcame all the obstacles. He built the imaginary house. Unfortunately, however, that triumph did not last — because somehow, Goro agreed to step out of the real world and into the world of his father. He agreed to direct a Studio Ghibli film.It did not go well. Goro’s film, “Tales From Earthsea,” lacked the energy that defined his father’s work: the throbbing physicality, the restless joy, the moral ambiguity. It was, to be blunt, stiff and humorless. The villain cackled. The hero was noble. At a screening, Miyazaki walked out after only an hour. “It felt like I’d been in there for three hours,” he said, despondently, before reluctantly heading back in. All of this was captured in the NHK documentary. Still, almost unbelievably, Goro went back for more. He proposed directing a second film. In the end, after some more father-son fireworks, this one, “From Up on Poppy Hill,” was — thank the Forest Spirit — much better than his first.And then came this huge undertaking of Ghibli Park. A theme park, in a way, had higher stakes for Goro Miyazaki than any single film. This would be a public, physical, visitable, globally anticipated translation of his father’s imaginative worlds. And Goro would be absolutely in charge.A detail in Satsuki and Mei’s father’s study.Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesEventually, after our very long walk through the forest, my guides and I arrived at Satsuki and Mei’s House. As an attraction, it is hilariously minimalist — almost more conceptual art about a theme-park attraction than a proper attraction in itself. It’s as if a giant hand reached into the film, plucked just this building out and set it down in a clearing in this forest. We stepped inside. The house was clean, small and crowded. Visitors had removed their shoes, as if they were visiting a real person’s home. And everyone was just doing house things: opening drawers, opening closets, turning faucets on and off. The place had been arranged, with perfect realism, as if a Japanese family actually lived there. Tatami mats covered the floor. Dishes filled the cupboards. I slid open a closet. Nice, actual blankets, folded neatly, sat on the shelves. The bathroom had a big round tub just like the one in the film. Outside, the yard featured a working water pump: pull the handle, watch it flow.There was not a single image of Totoro — the most beloved of all the Studio Ghibli characters, the company’s equivalent of Mickey Mouse. Nor could I find any soot sprites. I stepped outside. On one side of the house, down at the ground, people were lining up to peek into a dark hole. In the film, this is the portal through which Totoro emerges. I got in line. Surely there would be a Totoro here. A pair of eyes at least. Finally! I thought. Ghibli Park had made me work for it, but I had found a Totoro. I waited my turn. I bent down. The hole was empty.When I told Goro about this experience, he seemed pleased.“We wanted to do something authentic,” he said. “Once you try to bring Totoro into reality, you can only do it with a doll, or a robot, or someone dressed as Totoro. It would just lose authenticity. I felt that it was more important to have the building give the feeling that Totoro might be there. When you sit in that tatami room, or if you look under the stairs, you feel like he might be hiding.”The most theme-park-like area of Ghibli Park — the place that you will see all over Instagram — is called Ghibli’s Grand Warehouse. From the outside, it absolutely lives up to that name. It is a big giant warehouse: hulking, boxy, utilitarian. It looks as if it might contain a municipal swimming pool — which, in fact, it once did. (An identical building, right next door, still contains an ice rink.) Now the building is stuffed with Ghibliana: a dense bonanza of references and tableaus and scale-model buildings. It is colorful chaos. There are fountains and staircases and bright mosaics with Ghibli’s signature creatures worked into the patterns. There is a children’s play area featuring Totoro and a giant Cat Bus. There is a grand old-fashioned theater that plays charming short films never released in theaters. (I saw one about a group of preschoolers who imagine their way out onto the open sea, where they lasso a smiling whale.)Princess MononokeThe Grand Warehouse’s main draw was an exhibition called, wonderfully, “Exhibition: Becoming Characters in Memorable Ghibli Scenes.” It is a series of life-size tableaus from beloved Studio Ghibli films into which visitors can insert themselves. You can run on top of a giant fish with Ponyo, pose with a robot from “Castle in the Sky,” enter the cluttered clubhouse in “From Up on Poppy Hill” or stand with the hunters from “Princess Mononoke.” Or, the most popular choice, you can sit on the train next to No Face.Let’s pause here, briefly, to make sure we all fully appreciate No Face. The very best Miyazaki characters, the ones that hit on the deepest spiritual levels, are the ones that do not speak. Totoro, the Cat Bus, soot sprites, kodama (the little rattle-headed forest spirits in “Princess Mononoke”). And the greatest of all these — one of the great strange miracles in the history of cinema — is No Face. No Face is a lonely ghost who appears, out of thin air, in the middle of “Spirited Away.” He is so simple and deep, so eloquently silent, that it is hard to even describe him. Words themselves hesitate. This, in fact, is partly what No Face is about: the failure of language. He speaks in incoherent monosyllables (“eh, eh, eh”) — tender little noises that nudge their way toward language but never quite get there. And yet his sounds are full of feeling, full of all that wants to be expressed but can’t.An exhibit in the Grand Warehouse with No Face, from ‘‘Spirited Away’’ (2001).Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesNo Face, in other words, is quintessential Miyazaki. In a 2002 interview, Roger Ebert told Miyazaki he loved the “gratuitous motion” in his films, the way “sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or sigh, or gaze at a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are.” To which Miyazaki responded: “We have a word for that in Japanese. It’s called ma. Emptiness. It’s there intentionally.” Miyazaki clapped his hands. “The time in between my clapping is ma,” he told Ebert. “If you just have nonstop action with no breathing space at all, it’s just busyness.”No Face is ma come to life. He is a living negation, an absent presence — a character so minor that he becomes extremely major. His body is a big black swoop. His face is a white mask, in which the eyes and mouth are just black holes. No Face’s body is semitransparent, so you can actually see the background right through him.This was the one experience I absolutely wanted to have at Ghibli Park, the thing I had been fantasizing about from thousands of miles away: to sit next to No Face. I wanted to enter Miyazaki’s most iconic scene: No Face, sitting, expressionless, on a red velvet seat on an ethereal train near the end of “Spirited Away.” I needed to sit there with him, to put my real 3-D body next to his fake 3-D body. I needed to feel that I was gliding over the water, lonely but not alone, on his sad hopeful journey.Chihiro with No Face in “Spirited Away.”Unfortunately, this turned out not to be possible. Everyone else in Japan seemed to have come to Ghibli Park to take this photo. The line seemed infinite. My guides simply acknowledged that, given the time constraints of our tour, the wait would be too long. (They did not offer, even for a second, to let me cut the line, which I appreciated, because I almost certainly would have done it, thereby violating the whole anti-greed ethos of “Spirited Away.”)As a consolation, my guides took my photo in a different tableau, one with a very short line. It was the climactic scene from “Porco Rosso,” Miyazaki’s story of an Italian pig-pilot. This is not one of my favorite Ghibli films, but I would take what I could get. In the tableau, a huge crowd cheers as Porco, his face battered and swollen, throws a punch. I stepped into the fight, tilting my body to absorb Porco’s punch, pretending to punch him back. It felt completely ridiculous. The P.R. team took my photo. It looks as ridiculous as I felt.I left the Grand Warehouse feeling — I have to say — mildly disappointed. I had not sat with No Face. Nor had I enjoyed the concession stand that offers, as the website puts it, “local milk in a glass bottle with an original design.” (Another infinite line.) Despite all its color, the Grand Warehouse felt static, plastic, a little anticlimactic. Unlike in Ghibli’s films, nothing moved. Part of me — again, the American part — had been expecting to be shocked, entertained, thrown around. It was hard to imagine Hayao Miyazaki, the genius world-builder, the man obsessed with motion, building a place so oddly still. He would have built a rollicking theme park.In fact, Toshio Suzuki told me, that had once been his plan. Not many people knew this, Suzuki said, but a long time ago Hayao Miyazaki went to Disneyland. And he loved it.“He kept it to himself,” Suzuki said. “He never said that at home — that he had fun at Disneyland. But I know what happened.”The Cat Bus, an interactive exhibit taking children into the world of “My Neighbor Totoro.’’Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesIn fact, Miyazaki had so much fun that he came back to Japan dreaming of building a theme park of his own. He sketched secret plans of Ghibli-themed roller coasters. Suzuki saw them. But these plans never came to pass. Goro wasn’t interested.The Grand Warehouse, Goro told me, was motionless by design. He felt that even the most advanced theme-park effects — rides, virtual reality — could never compare with the experience of watching Studio Ghibli’s films. So he didn’t even try. The absence of attractions, the lack of motion in the Grand Warehouse — it was all perfectly intentional.“It’s the visitors that create the motion,” he said. “The characters don’t move, so the visitors have to move themselves. People get very creative, interacting with the scenes. Whether you enjoy it or not — and how you enjoy it — is up to you. And I think that is more Ghibli-esque.”A couple of weeks before it opened, Miyazaki visited Ghibli Park. Toshio Suzuki went with him. Goro gave them a tour.The park, Miyazaki said, “was something that I wouldn’t have come up with myself.”“He looked a little lonely,” Suzuki told me. “Maybe thinking that his time was up.”An exhibit inspired by ‘‘The Secret World of Arrietty’’ (2010).Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesMy favorite experience of Ghibli Park, the most “Ghibli Park” experience of all, came at the very end. It involved no lines, no merch, no Miyazaki characters — and yet somehow it felt steered, or framed, or made possible, by Miyazaki. Back at the train station, after my tour, I said goodbye to my guides. Then I turned and walked, over the sea of concrete, back down the hill. Past the Grand Warehouse, through the “Spirited Away” gate. And I followed the path back into the forest. The forest was, after all, the whole point of this park, its inspiration — the thing that father and son could always absolutely agree on.I plunged into the trees and started wandering at random. The forest was not, like so many of the forests in Miyazaki’s films, ancient and primeval. It was younger, more modest. World War II left Nagoya and its surroundings in ruins. The city was destroyed by bombs. The trees were cut down. Much of the soil had been stripped to make clay. This forest was planted, in the years following the war, as an intentional act of recovery. Since then, these trees had been struggling to grow in that white, clay-heavy soil. That’s why they looked the way they did: lean, hungry, twisting. They had to work harder than trees in other places. This is part of why Goro was determined not to cut down a single one. When a few trees got in the way of Ghibli Park’s construction, he had them carefully moved.I kept walking. I scaled steep wooden stairways. Very few other people were out hiking, so most of the time it felt as if we were all alone, me and the trees. I considered the Japanese term “forest bathing” — the notion that walking through trees cleanses your soul. I walked on boardwalks that stretched up toward the canopy. I thought about how this was a place I never would have visited in 100 lifetimes — this unfamous small forest in a municipal park on the outskirts of an industrial city in Japan. And how this was exactly Goro’s plan: to lure people here with the promise of Ghibli’s imaginary world — and then to give them this real one. This place was real, and I was real, and those two realities were overlapping. Trees, trees, trees. It was entirely up to me where to go, what to look at, when to leave.I stopped to watch a spider working in some upper branches, building a large web, twisting and prancing, silhouetted against the blue sky. I passed clusters of fallen acorns on the ground — the forest replenishing itself — and they made me think about Totoro, and thinking about Totoro made me notice more acorns, and soon I stooped to collect some. I filled my pockets. I was happy. And it struck me that this was exactly what I went into Miyazaki’s films for, and what Miyazaki’s animation almost paradoxically did for me: It helped me to find reality, to really see it, to experience it as real, ordinary and strange, boring and surprising. Ghibli Park, in its simplicity, honored this spirit completely. Goro’s vision of a theme park was more radical than the grandest roller coaster could ever be.As the sun started to set, I followed a steep path to the top of a hill. There was a little clearing with wooden benches. An old informational sign from the World Expo. It looked like a place no one had been in 10 years. I went inside a small wooden building that turned out to be a bathroom. Taped up on a utility closet, with thick green tape, was a single sheet of paper. It seemed to be some kind of sign. I examined it. It showed a blurry photo of a stout monkey, standing on all fours. There was some Japanese text underneath, so I ran it through my phone’s translation app. The sign was a warning for hikers. But in that moment it read to me like a poem, or a whole life philosophy:Do not make eye contact with monkeys.Do not feed the monkeys or expose them to foodAfter a while, we will move. not stimulating please.A play area in Ghibli Park’s Grand Warehouse, one of the only conventionally theme-park-like parts of the park.Rinko Kawauchi for The New York TimesSam Anderson is a staff writer at the magazine. He has written about rhinos, pencils, poets, water parks, basketball, weight loss and the Fountain of Youth. Rinko Kawauchi is a Japanese photographer known for her images of elemental subjects collected in books including “Ametsuchi” and “Halo.” Her solo exhibition will be shown at the Shiga Museum of Art through March. More