I had never seen Totoro on the big screen until recently. I love all his movies, though it took me longer to come around to some of them than others. Seeing Nausicaä, Kiki's Delivery Service, and Howl's Moving Castle in cinemas made a bigger difference than I expected in making me realize what's great about those films.
Maybe it's because the theater setting makes it easier for me to take in everything the film is doing holistically, and not just the logical connection of the narrative. The famous scene in Totoro with Satsuki and Mei waiting for their father's bus at night, in the rain, struck me differently when there was no potential for distraction and there was nothing but the film in my field of view. Mei starts nodding off and Satsuki lifts her onto her back. At the same time, Satsuki struggles to hold the umbrella over them both. For a few seconds, Satsuki just stands there in this awkward position, and we realize that neither she nor the audience knows when her dad's bus is going to arrive or when the rain is going to stop. The look on her face isn't so much upset as resigned, accepting that she will have to wait but still holding a deep vexation.
But then she peeks under the edge of the umbrella and sees Totoro's enormous foot. Her face lights up and the scene's mood changes, swept up entirely in Totoro's curiosity and frivolousness.
It's no wonder the image of Satsuki and Totoro standing together has become so iconic of this film. (Even if the girl on the poster based on this scene isn't actually Satsuki.) Imaginary things coexist with a careful observation of real life. And beyond that, what makes it work is the discomfort we see Satsuki experience just before. Totoro intercedes so Satsuki doesn't have to just stew in her situation alone.
In Abel Gance's 1919 film J'accuse, characters who once recognized and celebrated nature's beauty become jaded and depressed after witnessing the horrors of World War I. It's worth comparing to the later part of Totoro when Mei goes missing and Satsuki desperately searches for her. The orange evening sky and way its light falls on the film's environments are beautiful, but in this context, you mainly sense the scale and indifference of the natural environment.
Other parts of the film depict adults, or children having moments of maturity, being supportive of each other in spite of whatever burdens they bear. Because of this, they can continue to find some satisfaction in the world's beauty even through difficult times. This is something children have to learn, and the adults in this film try to help them through it with folktales and their own expressions of gratitude.
The pitch-perfect characterization of Totoro in this film reflects an ambition to provide the same kind of assurance. And the care this film takes to depict the dimensions, textures, colors, and patterns of its setting reflects a hope that people with this ambition can help each other find abiding satisfaction in a world that, even if it contains Totoros and Catbuses, is full of mundane things. When a nightly summer breeze blows in through the open window of Professor Kusakabe's cramped makeshift study, you can just tell its temperature and how strong it is, and how pleasant it would be to sit where he's sitting for that moment. It's a film for people who like to be outside.
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