We live in an age when it is cheaper to buy the rights to movies

When Hayao Miyazaki declared, “We live in an age when it is cheaper to buy the rights to movies than to make them,” he was not merely speaking of economics, but lamenting a spiritual shift in the world of art. His words unveil a profound truth: that we dwell in a time when the fire of creation is often dimmed, replaced by the cold machinery of acquisition. To create is costly, requiring sweat, imagination, risk, and sacrifice; but to buy what has already been created is easier, cheaper, and far less daring. In this, Miyazaki mourns the triumph of convenience over creativity, of commerce over courage.

The origin of this insight lies in the transformation of cinema itself. Once, films were born from boldness—the great directors, actors, and writers dared to build something from nothing, to carve out new myths upon the glowing screen. Yet in the modern age, as Miyazaki saw, the tide has turned. Studios often prefer to purchase the rights to an existing story, remake or repackage it, and sell it again, rather than risk the cost and uncertainty of nurturing a truly original vision. Thus, art risks becoming repetition, a recycling of old dreams, rather than the birth of new ones.

Consider the tale of Hollywood in the 21st century, where remakes, reboots, and adaptations dominate the landscape. Beloved stories are purchased, reshaped, and resold, not because imagination has run dry among humanity, but because industry fears the peril of originality. It is safer, cheaper, to purchase what the people already know than to venture into the uncharted waters of new creation. Miyazaki, whose own films sprang from deep wells of originality—Spirited Away, My Neighbor Totoro, Princess Mononoke—saw this clearly. He himself labored to make the costly choice: to create, not recycle.

History offers us another mirror in the Renaissance. Patrons once invested in the genius of living artists—Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael—risking wealth and reputation on works that had never been seen before. But later ages turned instead to the collection of what already existed: paintings bought and traded as commodities, art valued less for its vision than for its market worth. So too, Miyazaki suggests, has cinema fallen into this pattern: less the daring act of artistic birth, more the cautious exchange of ownership.

The meaning of his words is thus both warning and challenge. He reminds us that creation is costly—not only in money, but in courage, in energy, in faith. To make something new is to walk into the unknown, to risk failure and loss. But this risk is the lifeblood of art. When society favors only what is easy, when it prizes ownership above originality, the world becomes poorer, its stories weaker, its imagination dimmed.

The lesson for us is clear: we must cherish and protect those who still create. Support the artists who dare to bring forth new worlds, who risk their lives and resources for vision. Resist the temptation to settle always for the familiar, the safe, the recycled. For though it may be cheaper to buy what already exists, it is nobler, more heroic, and more fruitful to make what has never yet been seen.

What then should you do? First, honor the creators in your own life—writers, filmmakers, painters, musicians—by seeking their work and giving it value. Second, in your own endeavors, do not fear the difficulty of original creation. Whether you build businesses, write stories, or shape communities, choose the harder path of innovation over the easier path of imitation. Third, cultivate within yourself the courage to risk imperfection for the sake of truth, for the act of making is always more life-giving than the act of merely possessing.

Thus, let Miyazaki’s words resound as both lament and call to action: “It is cheaper to buy the rights to movies than to make them.” Cheaper, yes—but greatness has never been born of cheapness. True art, true progress, true life demands the cost of creation. Pay it gladly, endure its burdens, and in so doing, give to the world not what it already knows, but what it has never yet dared to imagine.