Hayao Miyazaki: My Neighbor Totoro

by Brian Zitzelman

My Neighbor Totoro stands as arguably Hayao Miyazaki’s finest film, a feat considering his vast and impressive career. The picture is a delicate, deeply charming work bursting forth with originality and personality. Released in 1988, Totoro was famously on a double-bill with Isao Takahata’s Grave of the Fireflies, two similar and distinctively different features whose sense of innocence and loss resonate years after their initial showings.

The first Miyazaki picture to occur in a real world setting, Totoro takes place in Japan after World War II and before televisions invaded households. One new home’s tenants are moving in, a father and his two daughters, Satsuki and Mei. The family settles into their place in a small village, surrounded by farmers, rice paddies and lush tall trees. The young girls run, shout and uncover all of the mysteries of their new house, from dust bunnies to the titular creatures, the magnificent totoros.

The entire 86 minutes Miyazaki weaves are magical. Mei and Satsuki are a joy to watch, playing openly and blissfully as two young sisters would. Satsuki is the elder, in school already and at the age where she can state with no cynicism her disgust with boys. Her relationship with Mei is a loving one. Mei adores Satsuki, mirroring every small maneuver, from what songs she sings to the slightly off kilter way Satsuki comes to an abrupt halt when running. Miyazaki’s animation crew draws all of the little details, showing Mei studying her steps to ensure the accuracy of each imitation. All of My Neighbor Totoro contains a loving spirit, an appreciation for family and its tenderness that few films have in any form. A father smiles at each daughter uniquely, accepting and adoring the small moments he gets to share with them, riding on a bike at dusk, divulging history of the land’s spirits and being confounded by their new ideas on life. The mother of the group lies elsewhere, overcoming a serious sickness which keeps her from Satsuki and Mei. An early reunion in Totoro is beautifully handled. The sisters argue over who gets to have her hair brushed by mom first, followed by Satsuki’s face glowing with delight when told her hair will look just like that of the mother’s. Miyazaki tells it affectionately, with an honesty that can be heartbreaking.

One of the movie’s best tricks is the lack of any villain, a practical heresy in western animation to be sure. The core of Totoro not only refrains from thieving, brooding treachery; it is a character piece. There is no real plot in traditional storytelling purposes. Miyazaki tells of an important time in the life of two sisters, but no pinpoint obstacles must be overcome to find happiness, just the daily routines of life, even if it has a few furry creatures of various shapes and sizes roaming outside the house.

The totoros of the film are Miyazaki’s most memorable creation, even being the icon of Studio Ghibli, the director’s studio. Similar to trolls Mei sees in a storybook, a totoro is a being with large, bunny rabbit like ears, immense whiskers, a tail and can be a slew of colors. The King Totoro smiles with a massive Cheshire Cat grin, immense in stature, gentle in nature, plus graceful in movement. More than merely a brilliant design, what generates the totoros popularity is their actions, sweet and nearly childlike. As Satsuki props a tired Mei on her back while waiting for her father to show at a bus stop, the King Totoro slowly appears, drenched from a downpour. With only a leaf to cover its head, Satsuki lends her neighbor an umbrella. As the rain continues, the totoro discovers the sound of a horde of water smacking the umbrella at once and wants the sensation on a larger scale, leaping its massive body with style into the air, to come crashing down to the ground, along with all the hangings drops that had clung to the trees above. The scene is delightful, showing off many of the filmmaker’s skills. Miyazaki lets the scene play out with patience, filling the screen with detailed images, which contrast magnificently in the varying light. The worlds of his first two films, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind and Castle in the Sky seem far removed with Miyazaki and crew reaching a new level of craftsmanship. A single frame can show more than setting, it reveals emotion and an enveloping world, one where the time of day is clear simply by its coloring. Too many animated films resort to simple morning, day, night aspects, making no distinction between dawn and dusk. Even the way the moonlight plays on the character shadows at night has vividness.

Coinciding with the unforgettable images of My Neighbor Totoro is collaborator Joe Hisaishi’s score. As always, Hisaishi’s music is elegant and catchy. Long stretches of the film feature no cues, making each one’s arrival a pleasure. The totoro theme itself lodges an enormous space in the brain, leading to bouts of contagiously singing along to it when Hisaishi lets it out to play. The tune encapsulates Totoro, a piece of art with a surface sheen of simplicity containing countless delights.