•
Rating: Sometimes, we need someone to come looking for us when we are lost, someone to keep us company when we feel lonely, and protect us when we are afraid. For Mei and Satsuki, two little sisters aged four and eleven, who moved with their dad to a small country village to be close to their sick mother, that "someone" will be a sort of giant mole, with thick, soft fur like that of a cat, long whiskers, and a strong, powerful roar. A sleepy forest spirit, living in the trunk of a giant camphor tree, he loves playing the ocarina in the moonlight.
It was 1988 when Hayao Miyazaki, the undisputed master of Japanese animation, gave us what is, to date, his most intimate and reflective work, minimalist and almost moving in its simplicity, far from that "poetic frenzy" that usually accompanies his productions. A film in which, almost unbelievably, the Master decides to leave in the background (if not even to shelve), some of his most cherished themes: not only the much-adored flying machines of Leonardo-like memory (here completely absent) and, more generally, the theme of flight (relegated to a rather marginal role), but also that particular post-war fantasy setting that had given so much charm to the exploits of Lana, Nausicaa, and Sheeta in the Master's previous scripts.
Due to a sort of strange "law of retaliation," Miyazaki decides to stage the oneiric tale of Totoro in a mostly "real" frame and (at least on paper) not idyllic at all: post-war Japan. However, in contrast to what happens in "Grave of the Fireflies" (one of the saddest and most dramatic episodes of Japanese animation, produced the same year by Studio Ghibli), in "My Neighbor Totoro," the world conflict seems to be a fact that, if it ever happened, now belongs to the past, a wound which, if it ever marked the land and its people, is now healed. Together with the two sisters, we find ourselves catapulted into a sort of arcadia, a microcosm in which man seems to have truly learned to live in harmony with nature. Indeed, nature is described as an entity to which humans offer profound respect, almost a kind of devotion: it sets the pace of the lives of the villagers where Mei and Satsuki find themselves living, providing them with food, water, and protection. But it is the same nature that sometimes proves to be ruthless, ready to obstruct our path and deprive us of what is most dear to us. Miyazaki’s nature always carries an aura of magic and mysticism that makes it appear like a kind of never fully knowable Mother-Goddess. Her emissaries and guardians are spirits, entities worth believing in even if there is no certainty of their existence, mysterious beings to be respected and “venerated” even if they love to stay in peace (perhaps in the dark of some abandoned attic) and do everything not to be seen.
The meeting between Totoro and little Mei thus becomes almost a metaphor for something greater: the possibility for "modern" man to open his existence to nature and its mysteries, the hope that new generations will grow up avoiding the mistakes of their fathers and know how to progress with respect for traditions. This becomes the main point of departure from Miyazaki’s other productions: faith in humanity. The tale of Totoro almost seems to want to be proof that an alternative to Lepka and the soldiers of Industria, to Muska and the Seven Days of Fire, an alternative to madness, selfishness, and the ugliness of humanity and, especially, of adults is indeed possible and within reach. Not only the figure of the wise and benevolent grandmother, but also that of the university professor father (symbol of a science that finally does not try to uproot or discredit popular traditions) and, in general, all the villagers (so eager to help each other in times of need) offer a vision of humanity that truly does not wish to repeat the mistakes of the past.
But it is above all the way the director depicts childhood that makes “My Neighbor Totoro” a masterpiece. Miyazaki’s is a fresco of childhood that is certainly sweet, affectionate, but above all "respectful". As often happens in the director's films, also in "Tonari No Totoro", the protagonists will be faced with challenges far too hard and far too great for their young age. And so, Mei and Satsuki will find themselves having to cope with their mother's illness: a constant and "looming" uncertainty in the lives of the two sisters, who seem not to fully understand either the cause or the severity. Yet, the naïvetés, fears, and weaknesses of the little protagonists, however comical, are never a reason for derision or mockery. Whether it is the scenes where little Mei clumsily tries to imitate all the gestures of her older sister, her sulky pout, the tears that occasionally trickle down her face, or even the crazy decision to walk to the clinic where her mother is hospitalized, Miyazaki’s gaze remains delicate, understanding, almost “maternal”.
And then it cannot help but leave a bittersweet aftertaste to think that, perhaps, Miyazaki’s most beautiful invention is precisely his beautiful and poetic way of conceiving and representing childhood as something pure, good, and simple. A brave childhood, capable of grasping and embracing the mysteries surrounding it in its own life.
A childhood truly willing to believe in magic.
Loading comments slowly
