The spirit world doesn't establish that names carry power until Yubaba needs them to.

Chihiro arrives unnamed and unremarkable — she functions fine until Yubaba explicitly extracts a contract, a legal instrument rather than a spell, in exchange for employment and sustenance.

We're told names matter because the plot requires control, not because the world's internal physics demand it. This is the film's most honest moment, though unintentional.

Yubaba doesn't steal identity through magic — she purchases it through labor. Chihiro signs away her name the way a 1990s Japanese worker signed away seniority rights, lifetime employment, and cultural identity to the corporation. The bathhouse isn't a spirit realm but rather a company town where the currency is selfhood and the contract is permanent.

Chihiro escapes because she maintains an internal narrative of continuity, not because names have mystical force — but because remembering yourself is the only remaining resistance available when everything else is already sold.