My Neighbour Totoro

I am delving into the fantastical realm of animation film with this week's review. The second of Studio Ghibli's films, My Neighbour Totoro is a staple of the iconic Japanese studio's filmography, recently adapted into a hit West End show. It has all the whimsical charm of a quintessential Studio Ghibli film, rich with fantastical characters and stunning landscapes and, as with most of the studio's work, I was entranced within minutes. Yet, despite its magic, this story falls short, lacking the rewatchable charm of other classics such as Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle.

The film opens in the sprawling rice paddies of 1950s Japan. A moving van rumbles through the tranquility, carrying Tatsuo Kusakabe and his daughters, Mei and Satsuki, to their new home in the countryside. From the outset, we are flooded with the stunning visuals now synonymous with Ghibli. The idyllic rural farmlands swell with fantastical promise and, when the family arrives at their dilapidated home, the girls are unable to contain their excitement (even beneath the decaying rafters, they find joy). Their boundless energy (whilst somewhat jarring) serves as a reminder of life's small pleasures, pushing against an adult instinct to cringe at the home's many flaws.

As the children explore, their innocence alerts them to a mystical presence: a flurry of floating 'dust bunnies' inhabiting the crevices of the house. Curioser and curioser... they discover a trail of mysterious acorns that seem to appear from thin air! In a refreshing departure from Western materialism (which denies the existence of spiritual realms), the adults do not dismiss their discovery as childlike fantasy. The local 'Nanny' recalls seeing them in her youth and their father welcomes the new neighbours, remarking, 'I always wanted to live in a haunted house.' These characters accept that they must share the space, shedding individualistic notions of a 'home' for a communal sense of belonging. This openness reflects Shintoist belief systems and Japanese folklore's reverence for the spiritual realm. The bond between the material and the spiritual, as well as the sanctity of the natural world, are themes that will underscore the harmless whimsy of My Neighbour Totoro.

We learn that Mei and Satsuki's mother is recovering from a long-term illness in a nearby hospital. The details are deliberately vague, inviting interpretation. Meanwhile, their father is notably absent for much of the film, leaving the girls to immerse themselves in the fantastical world around them. Despite the significance of Shintoism, we question whether these spirits are real or just a figment of childish imagination, stabilising a fractured home.

The intrigue deepens when Mei encounters two apparitions in the garden. The ghosts quickly flee from her delighted shrieks as she chases them deep within the trunk of a majestic tree. There she discovers Totoro, a ginormous but gentle forest spirit. Fearless and full of childlike wonder, Mei embraces the snoozing giant before dozing off in its fluffy embrace. Totoro is never presented as threatening; instead, he offers Mei comfort, symbolising the stabilising force of imagination.

When Mei excitedly confides in her father and Satsuki, they journey into the woodland to pay their respects to the forest spirits, reinforcing the film's ecocentric themes. Rather than delivering overt conservationist messages, My Neighbour Totoro focuses on the relationship between a small family and their home, forging an intimate connection between the human, natural and spiritual realms.

As their mother's return is delayed, the girls' anxiety grows, mirrored in their deepening connection with Totoro. One night, in a dreamlike sequence, Totoro and the girls use magic to grow acorn seeds into a giant tree. This shared act is significant: granting the girls magical powers gives them a sense of agency - a way to process their fears. If the forest can surge with life, why can't their mother? They wake up with the tree gone, but small sprouts can be seen pushing up through the soil where they planted the seeds. Whether coincidence or magic, the saplings provide a glimmer of hope that their dreams may come true - not that Totoro is real, but that their mother may return home. Repeatedly, the natural and spiritual realms embody hope and wonder and the power they wield.

The film continues with a series of whimsical episodes, including one notably bonkers Cat Bus - a bizarre creature that ferries the spirits through the night. However, it is here where the narrative loses momentum. When word arrives that their mother's condition has worsened, Mei runs away, prompting Satsuki to search for her. The film takes far too long meandering and the final act fails to raise the stakes enough to have any real emotional impact. Satsuki jumps aboard the freaky cat bus and finds Mei, who has simply wandered off, and we discover that the mother was only suffering from a common cold. The multiple storylines, instead of converging into a climactic conclusion, culminate in an anticlimactic ending.

The story's ambiguity does encourage audiences to come up with their own alternate storylines, the most conceivable being that the magical world is a curated myth to soothe two girls grappling with uncertainty. Studio Ghibli films are notoriously perplexing, however, a film that relies so heavily on audience interpretation to imbue it with meaning lacks the foundations of good storytelling, making My Neighbour Totoro an enjoyable, yet ultimately unsatisfying tale. Its spiritualist and ecocentric themes are somewhat thought-provoking, but are utilised to far greater effect in later works such as Princess Mononke. My Neighbour Totoro gestures towards profound ideas, but lacks the dramatic heart to fully realise them. Is it a film about spiritualism, the sacred bond between the natural and human worlds, the power that wonder and childlike curiosity can have on perspective and grief? My Neighbour Totoro is almost all these things, and simultaneously none of them.

5/10

Yours sincerely,

The Film Buff