If you spent any time on the internet in the mid-2010s, you probably saw those side-by-side screenshots. You know the ones. A lion standing on a jagged rock. A baboon holding up a cub. A cloud in the shape of a dead father. The caption usually says something like, "Disney stole The Lion King from a Japanese anime called Kimba the White Lion."
It looks like an open-and-shut case of corporate theft. Honestly, I thought so too when I first saw the comparisons. But if you actually sit down and watch 50 hours of 1960s anime—which, let's be real, most people haven't—the "plagiarism" narrative starts to get really messy.
The controversy that won't die
The whole Kimba the White Lion vs The Lion King debate exploded back in 1994 when Disney released what they claimed was their first "original" story. For decades, Disney had been the king of adapting fairy tales. Snow White, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid—they were all based on existing books. Then came the story of Simba.
When the movie hit Japanese theaters, the local animation community didn't just notice similarities; they were livid. Over 480 Japanese cartoonists and animators, led by the legendary Machiko Satonaka, signed a letter to Disney. They weren't necessarily looking for money. They wanted an acknowledgment of Osamu Tezuka, the "God of Manga" who created Jungle Emperor (the original title for Kimba) in 1950.
Disney's response? A stone-cold "never heard of him."
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That's the part that still rubs people the wrong way. Roger Allers, the co-director of The Lion King, lived and worked in Tokyo as an animator during the 80s. During that time, Kimba's face was literally on the uniforms of a major Japanese baseball team, the Seibu Lions. Saying you've never heard of Kimba in Tokyo is like living in New York and saying you've never heard of Mickey Mouse. It's... a stretch.
Why it's not a simple copy-paste
Here is the thing: the stories are actually wildly different. Like, fundamentally.
The Lion King is Hamlet with fur. It’s a tight, 88-minute Shakespearean tragedy about a prince running away from his guilt and eventually returning to reclaim his throne. It’s about the "Circle of Life" and the natural order of things.
Kimba the White Lion is a rambling, 52-episode epic about a lion who wants to bring human civilization to the jungle. Kimba wants the animals to stop eating each other. He builds a restaurant for herbivores. He goes to Paris. He deals with humans—poachers, scientists, and explorers. Humans don't even exist in Simba's world.
Most of those "identical" screenshots you see online are actually cherry-picked from a Kimba movie released in 1997—after Disney's movie came out. It’s a weird case of "reverse-plagiarism" where the later Japanese project likely took visual cues from the massive Disney hit.
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Breaking down the "evidence"
- The Names: Simba means "lion" in Swahili. It's a very common name. Kimba's original name was Leo. The change to "Kimba" happened when it was brought to American TV in the 60s.
- The Villain: Both have a scarred lion as a villain. But in the 1950s manga, the villain Claw didn't have a scar. He was just a rival. The scar was added later. And let's be honest—giving a villain a scar is the oldest trope in the book.
- The Sage: Rafiki is a mandrill. Kimba has Buzara, an old mandrill/baboon. Again, if you're making a movie in Africa, you're going to use African animals. A wise old primate is a pretty standard archetype.
The smoking gun (or lack thereof)
The most damning evidence isn't even in the final movie. It's in the early development.
Matthew Broderick, who voiced adult Simba, admitted in interviews that he thought he was working on a Kimba remake. He grew up watching the 60s show. He told people, "I'm playing Kimba!" until someone at Disney corrected him.
Even weirder? Early concept art for The Lion King shows a white lion cub. There are even memos where executives accidentally refer to Simba as "Kimba."
Does this mean they stole it? Probably not in the "legal" sense. It’s more likely a case of cryptomnesia—where you have a memory of something but think it's an original idea. A bunch of 90s animators grew up watching Kimba on TV. When they sat down to draw a "lion king," those images were already living in the back of their brains.
What we can learn from the "Simba vs Kimba" saga
The real tragedy here isn't plagiarism. It's the erasure of history. Disney’s refusal to admit even a slight influence felt like a slap in the face to Tezuka’s legacy. Tezuka himself was a massive Walt Disney fan; he supposedly watched Bambi over 80 times. He would have probably been honored to be cited as an inspiration.
If you really want to understand this debate, you have to move past the 30-second YouTube clips.
Actionable steps for animation fans:
- Watch the 1966 pilot: Find the first episode of the original Kimba the White Lion series. You'll see immediately how different the tone is. It's more of a bizarre social commentary than a musical.
- Read the Manga: Osamu Tezuka’s Jungle Emperor is much darker and more philosophical than either the anime or the Disney film. It deals with the brutal intersection of nature and humanity.
- Look into "Mufasa: The Lion King": The 2024/2025 prequel introduces a white lion villain named Kiros. It's almost like Disney is finally winking at the controversy after thirty years of silence.
The reality is that stories aren't created in a vacuum. Everything is a remix of something else. The Lion King is a masterpiece of American animation, but it stands on the shoulders of giants—and some of those giants happen to be Japanese.
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Instead of arguing about who "stole" what, it's more interesting to look at how two different cultures took the same animal and told two completely different stories. One is a tale of destiny and duty; the other is a weird, wonderful dream of a world where predators and prey can finally sit down for a meal together. Both are worth your time.
To truly settle the debate for yourself, compare the themes of "The Circle of Life" with Tezuka's vision of animal-human coexistence. You'll find that while the visuals occasionally rhyme, the hearts of these stories beat to very different drums.