“When two girls move to the country to be near their ailing mother, they have adventures with the wondrous forest spirits who live nearby.”
Even
though it includes some of Miyazaki’s most well-known creations, what stands
out about My Neighbor Totoro to me is
its bold plotlessness. Or perhaps it’s better to say it’s boldly indifferent to
plot as we generally understand it. There is no Antagonist or Conflict as we
usually think of them. It’s easy, in fact, to imagine a much more conventional
kids movie version of Totoro—one doubtless
involving a wicked businessman who wants to pave over the camphor tree, Satsuki
having some sort of forced and precocious relationship with Kanta, and Totoro
using his Totoro-bear Stare to heal the girls’ mother. But none of that
happens. Not much really happens in Totoro.
That’s not a negative criticism. Totoro’s gentle meandering’s, free of
overt villainy and much outside conflict feels like an accurate reflection of
how most of us experienced childhood—where there is no real narrative, only
experience. But it also allows the film to do something really bold, and basically
be a psychological study of its two child protagonists without the usual and
expected symbolism and metaphor cluttering up the joint. There’s nothing
standing between Satsuki and Mei, and the stress their mother’s illness forces
on their family. The conflict, when it does come, comes from within themselves
as they struggle to cope with forces beyond their control and comprehension for
the first time—as universal a childhood experience as there could be.
While it defiantly eschews many of
the structures we take for granted, Totoro
also eschews embracing either reality or ambiguity. Or, I’ll put it this
odd way: The film never asks “Is this all in the girls’ combined imagination?” even
though it might be. Protective forest spirits, or imaginary friends, Totoro and
his crew are magical either way.
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