Hayao Miyazaki, the 73 year-old master of animation known as Japan’s answer to Walt Disney, is bowing out. The Wind Rises, his eleventh feature film, is being billed as a ‘farewell masterpiece’; a grand claim, as film publicity goes, but if anyone has earned the right to a little grandiosity, Miyazaki has. And, with The Wind Rises, he leaves us a curious swansong – a work that disorientates as much as it delights.

The story begins in 1920s Japan, where young Jiro dreams of one day becoming an aeronautics engineer. Fans of Miyazaki will recognise the pre-war setting and preoccupation with planes from 1992’s Porco Rosso, but the two films are strikingly different in tone. Whereas Porco Rosso was a fast-paced fantasy tale of a porcine pilot, The Wind Rises is a meditation on historical reality, or at least one version of that reality.

It is this historical element that has provoked some controversy in the film’s homeland, where nationalists have balked at its seemingly pacifist sentiments. In a dream, Jiro is told by his idol, the Italian engineer Caproni, that planes should be things of beauty, not instruments of war. This noble ideal is challenged by the tide of militarism which anticipates the Second World War, and the talented Jiro is soon busy designing the notorious Mitsubishi A6M Zero fighter plane for the Japanese Empire.

But the film’s message is not so direct as the rightwingers’ complaints suggest. Where a more conventional plot arc would see Jiro’s moral dilemma come to a head, Miyazaki wrong-foots the viewer by allowing the problem simply to fade away. Jiro’s own feelings regarding his place in the grand military scheme aren’t obvious, and the film seems more seduced by the aesthetic joys of aircraft than concerned by their potential for destruction.

This is typical of the film’s contemplative, philosophical mood. Boasting neither the violence of Princess Mononoke (1997) or the cute factor of My Neighbour Totoro (1988), The Wind Rises opts for a strange cocktail of nostalgia, dreams, humour and political awareness. Poetry is quoted liberally, particularly the ambiguous Paul Valéry line which gives the film its title: ‘Le vent se lève! … il faut tenter de vivre!’ (‘The wind rises ... we must try to live!’). The central romance between Jiro and Naoko, a painter suffering from tuberculosis, has a tragic quality that some may find mawkish – but it’s easy to forgive a little sentimentality from a retiring master.

Above all, Miyazaki’s final effort feels like a work made under few constraints. There’s little concern for concision (the film clocks in at a leisurely 126 minutes), audience demographics (will kids really be entertained?) or coherence. That the film is visually beautiful is almost a given for a Studio Ghibli product: the stunning landscapes and atmospheric interiors contribute in no small way to its emotional punch. And the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 gives the animators a chance to prove their virtuosity in a brilliant kinetic sequence.

It’s difficult to predict what place The Wind Rises will eventually occupy in the Miyazaki canon. But it’s a relief that this veteran director has left us with something so rich, so hard to pin down. It means that while Miyazaki enjoys retirement, we’ll be savouring his final film for years to come.

The Wind Rises is in cinemas now. Also catch the 'We Heart Miyazaki' season every Wednesday at the Arts Picturehouse Cambridge.