Koganei-shi, Tokyo, Japan. On the western edges of Tokyo's sprawling metropolis, this small residential area is tree-lined and serenely peaceful. A few pedestrians and a handful of cyclists thread their way along the narrow streets, as birds sing in the boughs above. But, at 10 a.m., the quiet is broken by a clattery two-cylinder fizz. Hayao Miyazaki is arriving at work.

Miyazaki is the co-founder of Studio Ghibli, best-loved of all the Japanese animation studios. In Japan, he is revered as a living god. Accepted shorthand refers to him as the Walt Disney of Japan, but that's not quite accurate. He insists that he is not merely an animator, but a director of his movies, an all-consuming passion that has been his life's work.

For the past 40 years, Miyazaki has driven to that work desk behind the wheel of a Citroën 2CV. “I love this car,” he said, during an interview with NHK in September 2014. “With it, I tremble with cold in winter and I die of heat in summer. It is in perfect osmosis with my nature and with my workshop installed at the bottom of a wood.”

For the past 40 years, Miyazaki has driven to that work desk behind the wheel of a Citroën 2CV.

Miyazaki bought his first 2CV as a university student in the early 1960s. It was a right-hand-drive model, imported from the U.K. and painted bright yellow. At the time, he was studying economics, but upon graduation, he moved into animation. He began at Tōei studios as a junior animator, where he met his longtime business partner and collaborator Takahata Isao.

A 2CV first appeared in Miyazaki's first feature-length film, 1979's The Castle of Cagliostro. An action-adventure tale involving a mischievous gentlemen thief, the film features multiple car chases, including the heroine, Clarisse, escaping in her 2CV.

In the movie, the 2CV seems to cling to the road like a cat on a carpet, rolling alarmingly yet refusing to relinquish grip. As with any anime, the artwork is bright and childish on the surface, but there's a depth of authenticity here. It's the spark at the beginning of an extraordinary career.

Fast-forward to 2019, and the port city of Yokohama, just a few miles to the south of Tokyo. Miyazaki and his team are cloistered in their studios, closed to press while they toil on their latest feature. How Do You Live is in full production, set for release before the 2020 Olympics. However, a member of the Japanese Citroën owners club has volunteered to give me a taste of Miyazaki's commute.

Yoshisuke Mayumi has owned his 1990 2CV6 for 29 years and continues to drive it regularly. We meet up along with a young motoring journalist named Tomoko Hoshino and set about exploring Yokohama's busy streets.

Miyazaki's current Citroën is a 1987 CV6, so very similar to this machine. As expected, the car rolls in corners and bounces over bumps, but the real surprise is in how competent it feels. Japanese traffic is a stream of vans and modestly powered boxy kei cars, and a modern 2CV has little difficulty keeping up.

Competent, yes, but also primitive. Yoshisuke jokes that in his youth, first dates had young women charmed by the Citroën's friendly face. By the third date, there were inevitably complaints about the heat in summer or the ever-present two-cylinder racket.

Stopped briefly at a light, I listen to the gentle patter of rain on the vinyl roof, and I'm instantly transported. This summer, I and my wife took our two young kids hiking into the backcountry. We set up our tent on the edge of a lake and woke up to the hiss of water falling on water. It was one of those moments where time seems to crystallize, a memory to be plucked and held in your hand.

If a modern car is like a house, then a 2CV is a tent. It lacks in absolute comfort, but it also comes without barriers. As Miyazaki said, the car promotes a sort of osmosis with the world.



The first Miyazaki movie I watched with my children was My Neighbor Totoro, perhaps the best-known of his films in the western world. I remember laughing at the cheerful absurdity of the titular Totoro, a sort of enormous fuzzball forest spirit, and then being gobsmacked by the veracity of the characters. The two heroines, self-reliant Satsuki and bumptious Mei, weren't just cartoons. They were my daughters, in movement, in gesture, in spirit. This was only a kid's movie, yet it held a deeper truth.

Miyazaki’s sketchbook. Brendan McAleer

Miyazaki and his partner, Isao Takahata, founded Studio Ghibli in 1985. In the same year, he published his personal sketchbook, detailing his love for the 2CV. He later also drew out a colorful illustrated history of the car, complete with cheerfully determined pigs at the wheel (another of his obsessions).



Hayao's father was the director of Miyazaki Airplane, a company that built components for the Mitsubishi Zero. His family roots gave him both an intense affinity for aircraft built between 1920 and 1930—and also a distinctly anti-militarist bent. His films often have deep environmentalist themes, and they also often feature soaring flight.



In construction, the 2CV's light metal skin over a tubular frame is much like an old aircraft. It's filled with clever engineering, yet it's also very basic and easy to understand. It is an umbrella with an engine, a balsa-wood glider on wheels.

The 2CV is an umbrella with an engine, a balsa-wood glider on wheels.

The following day, I visit the Studio Ghibli museum, in Mitaka. Built to vaguely resemble an Italian villa, it's absolutely crammed with oddities and aircraft. Everything Miyazaki touches seems suffused with quirky life.

Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Howl's Moving Castle, Kiki's Delivery Service, The Wind Rises. Each of Studio Ghibli's movies has extracted their toll from Miyazaki. He has a strained and distant relationship with his son, Goro, owing to long hours spent at the studio drawing and redrawing, chasing perfection. The laughing children filling every corner of this rambling museum aren't aware of the work. They feel only the joy.

Afterward, I make a stop in nearby Fussa city. Akio Harashima, another 2CV club member, has offered to show me around some of the shrines in the area. His 2CV is an older model, similar to Miyazaki's first Citroën. These days, it does not venture far from home, owing to modest power and the danger of driving such a delicate car in faster-moving traffic.

Harashima has to work hard to squeeze his 2CV along the narrow roads. A few times, we round a blind corner to find a huge van coming the other way. With U-joints rather than constant-velocity axles, you can't give the 2CV too much throttle in a corner or it'll start bucking away madly.

Yet when we arrive, there is something fitting about seeing a 2CV peacefully parked in front of a moss-covered shrine. The Japanese have a word for the need to be in nature: shinrin-yoku, forest bathing. Never was a car more open and in tune with its surroundings than this little French machine, made for farmers and country folk.



Atelier Nibariki. Brendan McAleer

I make one last stop. Park on a little patch of gravel. Walk past the ivy-covered walls of the Studio Ghibli main offices. Nod hello to the street-sweepers clearing away the fallen leaves. Round the corner, taking the same path Miyazaki covers every day he comes to work, wearing his artist's apron.

And there it is. Atelier Nibariki, his personal studio. Nibariki means “Two Horsepower,” a nod to the 2CV. The lights are on, someone working inside. Out front, a soaring tree reaches up, its branches forming a spreading canopy. Below, gnarled roots creep out over the brickwork, digging into the soil.

Here is where you'll most often find Hayao Miyazaki's little grey Citroën parked, having faithfully brought its master to work. It carries an artist through the world without keeping him apart from it. It holds a dreamer fast to the earth.