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Rating: It might seem like an unpretentious cartoon. Something for children. Indeed, the first time I saw it, I thought it was a simple work, a small childish escape. It is the exact opposite.
Here all the dramatic and fantastical richness of the Master is given, but by subtraction, through subtle and difficult suggestions for the eyes of the viewer who does not know him well. Only after seeing all his films, Mononoke, The Wind Rises, and so on, can you return to Totoro and understand its great stratification. That drowsy teddy bear that is a little scary and a little tender, that frolics and saves without batting an eyelid. It is the spirit guide of Miyazaki, his “animal god” ante litteram.
A tiny fable for children, a gigantic story about the meaning of life, nature, and the deities that populate it. About the strength of children who trust without asking too many questions. It has the rhythm and cadence of a small sweaty midsummer nightmare. A nightmare that maybe is more like a dream in the meadows, between games with dad and adventures in the woods. Hard to say.
The latent anguish is also given by autobiographical references: Miyazaki's mother stayed in the hospital for nine years. There is a constant sense of threat but on which fantasy dances, the joy of living and rolling in the meadows. The strength of the children despite everything, which recalls in less tragic tones Grave of the Fireflies by Takahata, released the same year. And anticipates some themes of the blockbuster Mononoke, but without the ambition to stage a clash. Because here the filmmaker's heart truly suffers, and therefore shares in the difficulties of the little sisters, namely him and his brothers.
There is a life full of limits, painful, tiring, which in the children's view is recolored, filled with confidence. Does Totoro exist or is it just a product of their imagination? It doesn't matter. It is the divine animal that saves the two little sisters, always a bit lonely considering the mother's illness and the father's work-related absences and delays. Could it be a childish suggestion? It doesn't count, because in Hayao's magical world, it's not right to make too precise distinctions between reality and imagination. The wind rises, you have to fly, with or without an airplane, it is not important.
In this sense, it is a film that uses a complex language because it rejects the categories of reality and fantasy. Reality is a dreamlike vision, and the dream is more real than ever if it helps us to live. The story is also given by subtraction, we don't see the beginning and we don't know how it ends. Because that is not the point, the Master wants to tell us something else. He wants to remind us that in the nearby grove (more or less) there is a Totoro ready to help each of us, if we can overcome the fear of approaching. He doesn’t speak, lazily snores, makes scary guttural sounds. But if we trust him, he will soon offer us a piece of his umbrella on a rainy evening. Here comes the catbus at his whistle to take us home, here he makes our plants grow like sequoias. And even mom's illness is a little less scary.
Narrative techniques
As with other films by the Master, the quality of the refinements in the narrative is that of a cinema giant. If you watch works like Laputa, you will notice an amazing ability to balance characters, dynamics, music, objects, dialogues, keywords, the wonder of vision, meanings, morals.
In this case, the ability to make the perfectly realistic scenario coexist (almost veristic, dwelling on insignificant but “great” elements) with fantasy inserts is amazing. Amazing because the two worlds, though influencing each other stringently, manage to remain on two parallel tracks without this being truly explicit. Let me explain: the viewer might suspect that only the sisters Satsuki and Mei see Totoro, it is more than plausible, but unlike other less sagacious authors, ours avoids creating the truth moment. There is no chance for the father to encounter the divine teddy bear, we never know if he doesn’t see him at all or if he never gets the opportunity to. Perhaps the adult no longer seeks him, that’s why he doesn’t see him. But Totoro has equal ontological dignity to the other characters. “Totoro was really there, it’s not a lie.”
Reality and fantasy, beauty and fear
Another aspect that makes this fable unique is the avoided opposition between the human world, gray and oppressive, and the fantastic world, colorful and liberating. It is much more subtle: the true world is beautiful, full of colors, of lights that fade into the gold of a sunset among the rice fields. A world that contemplates the existence of evil, of pain, but is moving for the beauty that resists like an ancient legacy. For this, we thank Kazuo Oga.
In an equal and opposite way, the alien dimension of fantasy is not only joyful, not only salvific. Totoro never acts as a purely benevolent genie. He has an independent dimension, intercepting the needs of the girls only a few times.
Miyazaki is delightful when he creates games and wonders through the most normal elements of the concrete. From the precarious beam to the giant camphor tree. From dust balls that become “soot sprites” to acorns falling from the ceiling. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.
The value of life
There is a discourse that goes well beyond beauty. There is a sense of extreme respect for life that cannot be questioned, a recovery of value for every aspect of existence. There is fear, the haunted house, drafts, the distant mother. There is Mei with tears. There is a travail that can last a few hours or a few years. But just as beauty, the value of life is also in the temperament of those who experience it, and cannot be disputed. No shadow can obscure the enthusiasm of those who manage to see Totoro.
Everything is sacred, everything is magic, everything is real.
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