I grew up flying the skies with Kiki on her broom, riding the winds with Totoro, taming the Ohmu with Nausicaa, and floating down mine shafts with Sheeta and Pazu. Avid anime watchers may recognize the names of my childhood companions as the masterful creations of aforementioned Hayao Miyazaki. To my delight, the works of this Japanese titan have come to be appreciated by a wider audience outside his motherland. Not only did this start with the international popularity of his newer works such as Princess Mononoke, and Spirited Away, the latter of which won the 2003 Academy Award for Best Animated Feature, but also with his earlier titles being released as DVDs from Disney.

While waiting in line with a friend some two hours before the showing at MOMA, I was star-struck by the sight of Mr. Miyazaki walking with his entourage, only a few feet away. It’s an altogether surreal experience, being in the presence of someone you’ve held in such high regard for a good part of your adolescent and adult life… I wanted to run up to him and give him a huge HUG — thank him for the magic he created that I’d relished as a child…

This magic, alas, becomes a bit excessive in Howl’s Moving Castle. The film is based on a children’s novel by Diana Wynne Jones. It’s a story about the adventures of young Sophie and her encounters with the dashing wizard Howl who lives in (you guessed it) a moving castle. As is characteristic of other Miyazaki films, Howl’s is rendered beautifully — a little lavishly in this case, with dazzling vistas and flashy magic tricks galore. The delivery of the plot feels different from Miyazaki’s usual style, in that the relationships between the main characters and their context seem less fulfilled, even inconsequential at times. The characters seem oddly disconnected from each other and from the events that take place around them, making them a little elusive. I found myself getting impatient when I realized that Howl’s was little more than a self contained love story. (Not that there’s anything wrong with these. I’ve just grown to expect meaningful and more universal/spiritual messages in Miyazaki films.) The pacing was such that 3/4 into the movie, I started wondering when it would be over (which I have NEVER done in any Miyazaki films I’d seen to date), and was taken aback by how the plot resolved itself so abruptly at the very end. (Qualities that seem incongruent with the original novel.)

Although this optical feast had its delightful moments (Billy Crystal’s voice gives life to Calcifer the fire demon and provides a sensible amount of comic relief), in the end it seemed too pretty, too sweet, and too simple to live up to the title of a Miyazaki film. I found myself yearning for the less glitzy splendor of his earlier works; where I didn’t see as much frill but more substance; where the cinematography, score, and script complemented (not competed with) each other; where the characters’ joys and tribulations felt so real that they became my own. Still, I must admit I’d rather have some Miyazaki than none, and hope his decision to retire (which he announced back when he completed Princess Mononoke) stays unfulfilled.

It’s not a question many people can answer, much less think to ask. The Japanese tradition of family members each owning designated pairs of ohashi (chopsticks), links different years of my life with various pairs I’ve used. It was only when I took its ubiquitous presence out of this quotidian context, that I came to appreciate the true ingenuity of ohashi.

The history of chopsticks goes back to China 5000 years ago, where people started using twigs and branches to serve food. By 500 A.D., its use had spread to other Asian countries. In Japan, its initial form was that of tweezer-like pincers made of bamboo, which later became two separate pieces. Over the years its design has developed into an art form. The colors, textures, shapes and materials used are of a limitless variety. There are lacquered wooden pairs embedded with mother of pearl cranes. Some are made of bamboo, come painted with polka-dots and stripes, and are sold in little transparent bags at 100-yen stores for the equivalent of $1.20. Others are adorned with the smiles and logos of beloved anime characters and Sanrio creatures. Sold with matching plastic cases, they accompany children’s lunch boxes to school. There are even tiny instructional chopsticks with hooks and grooves attached, specially designed for correct grip and finger placement so youngsters can acquire their much needed ohashi using skills at an early age. (Unfortunately I was never spoiled with a pair of these so I can’t vouch for their efficacy.)

Until western eating habits started infiltrating Japanese homes around the end of WWII, the Japanese diet mostly consisted of fish, rice, and boiled or pickled vegetables. This and the fact that soups were directly sipped out of a bowl meant that chopsticks were really all a person ever needed to consume a meal — form beautifully followed all necessary functions. On the other hand, it’s interesting to see how the form affects the function as well. There is something precise and remarkably elegant about picking up grains of rice and morsels of fish with tapered ends of ohashi (once you get the hang of it). For me, the act implements a calmer rhythm when eating my meals - good for digestion, since you avoid scarfing your food down.

Such utility never comes without a certain amount of do’s and don’ts. Here are a few I grew up with:

Don’t stick your ohashi in your rice: It’s reminiscent of offerings for the dead - usually inappropriate for dining room tables.

Don’t shishkabob your food: It’s unsightly. If you have to split something, work from the outside in, not the other way around.

Don’t pass food from one pair of ohashi to another: Not just because of the potential mess you’ll make but because its reminiscent of Japanese funereal customs involving bones.

Do set pairs of ohashi at the front, next to the table’s edge, with the pointed ends towards the left: If you have ohashi-oki’s (chopstick holders), place them under the tapered ends.

Do turn your ohashi around when using them to pick up food from a shared dish (family style eating): It’s polite. Your saliva doesn’t get all over the food other people will be eating. From experience I know this simple gesture can earn you major points at the table.

Not quite as complicated as western table manners, if you ask me… Now which fork is the salad fork?