This is a children’s movie for the world we should live in, rather than the one we occupy; a world without villains and fights; a world of characters who are not mean or violent. Instead of city streets and suburbs, with their chain franchises and hi-tech amusement parks, the movie suggests a rural Japan of mountains, fields and distant Tokyo skyscrapers.
Wildly popular in its homeland (second only to E.T.}; beloved throughout much of the rest of the world; winner of several international prizes, including two at Berlin; this has been called “the best family film of all time.” It is certainly among my favorites, both for itself and as a sign of hope-Disney no longer has a lock on children’s movies.
When they want to know how to find their house, the boys next door tell them, but not by making a face. They say it’s haunted. But this is Japan, and there are no ghosts or nasty spirits here; when Mei and Satsuki let light into the gloom, they see glimpses of little black fuzzy dots scurrying for cover. “Probably just dust bunnies,” says their father—but there is an old nanny who has been hired to look after them, and she confides that they are “soot sprites,” which like abandoned houses.
Think about the way the children approach the house. There is a pillar on its porch that is almost rotted through; they give it a gingerly push back and forth, showing how precariously it holds up the roof. But hold it up it does—the American cliche of a loud and sensational collapse (with everyone scurrying to safety) is avoided. When they peek inside and explore the attic, it has a certain scariness—but they dispel it by throwing open windows and waving to their father from upstairs.
And consider that the father simply accepts their report of mysterious creatures. Do sprites exist? Do totoros exist? They certainly do in the minds of Mei and Satsuki—and so do other fantastic creatures, such as the Cat Bus, which scurries through the forest on eight quick paws, its big eyes working as headlights.
”While it’s a little hard to tell whether adults really believe in them,” writes critic Robert Plamondon, ”not once does Miyazaki trot out the hoary children’s literature chestnut of ‘the adults think I’m a liar, so I’m going to have to save the world by myself.’ This accepting attitude towards traditional Japanese spirit-creatures may well represent an interesting difference between our two cultures.”
”My Neighbor Totoro” is based on experience, situation and exploration—not on conflict and threat. This becomes clear in the lovely extended sequences involving totoros—which are not mythological Japanese forest creatures, but were actually just invented by Miyazaki for this movie.
Little Mei finds the first baby totoro—a bunny-like animal—scurrying around their yard, and follows it into the forest. Her father is home alone and absorbed in his work; he doesn’t notice her absence. The baby leads her down a leafy green tunnel that abruptly ends with a soft landing on the stomach of a vast slumbering creature. Miyazaki doesn’t exploit cliches about dark and fearsome forests: When Setsuki and her father go looking for Mei, they find her without much trouble—sleeping on the ground, for the totoro has disappeared.
Afterwards, the girls head over to the bus station where their father is meant to alight. It keeps growing later and darker in the woods. Silently, casually, the giant totoro joins them at the bus stop, standing protectively to one side like an imaginary friend. Then it starts raining. The girls have umbrellas; they give one to the totoro, who is thrilled by the raindrops on the umbrella and jumps up and down to shake loose a cascade of drops from the trees. At this point, however, everything has been so calm and positive — night and forest regarded as situation rather than threat — that we hardly notice how smoothly things are being handled until it’s over and we see that there have been no villains anywhere along the way.
The family has two crises: When they go by hospital to visit mother (who wants them to tell her about their new house) and when Satsuki gets call from doctor and needs city father paged. In both scenes mother’s illness is treated as fact of life rather than tragedy leading inevitably to doom.
None of this kids-against-adults plotting that turns up so often in American films; here adults are safe haven for children; father is reasonable, insightful, tactful; accepts stories of strange creatures; trusts his girls; listens to explanations with open mind—and there are no dreary scenes where parent misinterprets well-meant action and punishes it unfairly.
I’m afraid I may be making ”My Neighbor Totoro” sound merely good for you when what I should have said is that it would never have attracted worldwide audience or become one of Japan’s top-grossing homegrown films just because of its warm heart. There is also human comedy: It observes two very convincing little girls (convincing not in how they look but in who they are) with great comic sympathy. And there is awe-inspiring spectacle: the scenes involving the totoro, with his roars that sound like the cracking of great trees, and the enormous Cat Bus, bounding silently through the forest on its furry paws. And there is a little sadness in it, a little scariness, a little surprise and a little information about fireflies and umbrellas and metempsychosis and Japanese school buses—and life. It depends on situation rather than plot, suggests that if you’ve been alive yourself and have known some wonder along the way (even if it only happened to you when you were a child), then this may supply all adventure that you ever need.
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