This piece from Animation Obsessive does something rare: it traces a direct, living lineage from a forgotten 1941 box-office bomb to the most revered animated films of the 21st century. The argument isn't just that Hayao Miyazaki was influenced by American animation; it is that his entire philosophy of "cartoon movies"—a term he reclaimed to describe films with "indescribable vitality"—was forged in the specific, flawed geometry of Fleischer Studios' Mr. Bug Goes to Town. For a busy reader, this is a masterclass in how artistic DNA survives commercial failure, proving that a film's legacy is often written by its critics and imitators long after its opening weekend.
The Myth of the "Fake World"
The piece opens by dismantling the modern obsession with hyper-realism in animation, tracing Miyazaki's frustration in the 1970s with the "naturalistic, un-idealized" style of his peers. Animation Obsessive reports that Miyazaki was desperate to return to the "manga eiga" (cartoon movies) of his youth, a style defined not by photographic accuracy but by emotional truth. "The exact term Miyazaki used was manga eiga," the editors note, highlighting how he deliberately chose an "old-fashioned" label to signal a return to big emotions, damsels in distress, and lovable heroes.
This reframing is crucial. It suggests that the "naive" style Miyazaki championed was actually a sophisticated rejection of the cynical, modern world. The piece argues that Miyazaki saw this "fake world" as a necessary construct: "It was a 'fake world' built on 'lies,' he said. But that fake world evoked the viewer's 'hopes and yearnings,' and called people to be better than they were in reality." This is a powerful lens through which to view the entire medium; it posits that animation's greatest power lies in its ability to construct a reality that is more morally coherent than our own, rather than just a more visually accurate one.
"For someone like me who aims to create cartoon movies, the one that I think does it best is Fleischer's Mr. Bug Goes to Town."
The article's central claim rests on this 1979 interview where Miyazaki names Mr. Bug as his favorite film, despite its reputation as a "crushing flop" in the United States. The editors do a fine job contextualizing the film's failure, noting that Paramount invested over $713,000 (roughly $16.4 million today) only to recoup a fraction of that sum. Yet, the piece insists that the film's commercial death was unrelated to its artistic merit. Instead, it was a victim of "gangsterism of old Hollywood," internal family feuds between the Fleischer brothers, and the geopolitical shock of Pearl Harbor, which caused Paramount to abandon the film's Christmas release.
The Architecture of Movement
What makes this commentary particularly sharp is its focus on the mechanics of animation rather than just the plot. The editors explain that Miyazaki admired Mr. Bug for its "superior spatial composition," where characters navigate a world that feels physically real despite being fantastical. "Even with a single gag, it's not something made up on the spot just so people will laugh, but instead something that would [naturally] occur if the character moved that way," Miyazaki is quoted as saying.
This observation cuts to the heart of the craft. The piece suggests that the "flat and literal" quality of the movement, which some critics hated, was actually its greatest strength. It forced the audience to treat the bugs as physical entities navigating complex, three-dimensional spaces. "There are intriguing things about Mr. Bug," the article notes, pointing out how the film's setting was modern and concrete, unlike the fairy-tale abstraction of Disney. This "rejection of the old Fleischer style" of freeform riffing created a world where the stakes felt tangible.
Critics might note that praising a film for its "literal" movement risks overlooking the expressive potential of stylized, non-realistic animation. However, the piece effectively counters this by showing how Miyazaki applied this principle to The Castle of Cagliostro. The editors draw a direct line between the grasshopper Hoppity's climb and Lupin's traversal of the villain's castle, noting that in both films, "the shots emphasize the space, and Lupin and company navigate that space literally." This isn't just a visual homage; it's a philosophical alignment on how a character interacts with their environment.
The Evolution of an Artist
The narrative takes a fascinating turn when it reveals that Miyazaki's admiration for Mr. Bug was not static. The editors recount a 1979 screening where Miyazaki rewatched the film and felt a surge of "disappointment and frustration." He found the ending absurd and the climb up the skyscraper "incredibly stupid." "My new conclusion is therefore as follows: Mr. Bug Goes to Town is both wonderful and incredibly stupid," he wrote.
This moment of critical honesty is the piece's strongest evidence of Miyazaki's growth. It shows that he didn't blindly idolize his influences; he dissected them. The editors argue that this disappointment was the catalyst for The Castle of Cagliostro. Miyazaki wanted to create a film that fulfilled the promise of Mr. Bug without its flaws. "Both those who make cartoon [movies] and those who love them tend to have a certain immaturity to them," he wrote, "and they tend to go easy on each other. But I'd like to see effort put into filmmaking sufficient to withstand the bare-knuckled criticism that I'm providing here."
The piece effectively uses this arc to demonstrate that artistic evolution is often a process of betrayal. Miyazaki himself admitted, "I am always betraying the path I took in my previous film." The editors trace this from the "willful naivety" of Cagliostro to the violent, complex themes of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, where "people die." Yet, even as his work became darker and more cerebral, the "indescribable vitality" of the Fleischer style never fully left him. The article notes that in 2009, Miyazaki stated, "when the chance arises, I think we'll have no choice but to create our own Mr. Bug," a sentiment that echoes in his final film, The Boy and the Heron.
"In the power of Mr. Bug's exuberant, endless movement, Miyazaki felt something he'd been missing in Japanese animation."
The editors conclude by weaving in a broader context of the animation world, from the success of I Am Frankelda in Mexico to the labor strikes of voice actors in Chile. These "newsbits" serve as a reminder that while Miyazaki reflects on the past, the industry is constantly grappling with the future. The piece mentions how The Boy and the Heron channels that old feeling, proving that the "mess" of Fleischer's work still holds the key to the medium's energy.
Bottom Line
This piece succeeds by treating a commercial failure as a foundational text for modern animation, offering a nuanced look at how influence works not through imitation, but through critical engagement. Its strongest argument is that Miyazaki's genius lay in his ability to extract the "vitality" from Mr. Bug while discarding its narrative weaknesses, a process that required him to be as critical of his idols as he was of his own work. The only vulnerability is the heavy reliance on Miyazaki's own retrospective commentary, which may romanticize the chaotic reality of Fleischer Studios' collapse; however, the editors' inclusion of the studio's internal dysfunction provides a necessary counterweight to the myth-making. For the busy reader, this is a reminder that the most enduring art often comes from the wreckage of forgotten projects.