My Neighbour Totoro, winner of six Olivier Awards, is now playing at the Gillian Lynne Theatre in London’s West End. The show is an adaptation of the 1988 animated feature film (dir. by Hayao Miyazaki) from Studio Ghibli and is performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company (Executive Producer Joe Hisaishi, directed by Phelim McDermott, and adapted by Tom Morton-Smith (writer of the play Oppenheimer (2015)).
From the moment the show began, I was transported into a magical world set in 1950s rural Japan. A charming tuk-tuk-style van chugs across the stage, carrying Satsuki, Mei, and their father as they move from the bustling city of Tokyo to their new home in the countryside. Their move isn’t just a change of scenery—it’s a heartfelt decision to be closer to their mother, who is recovering in a nearby hospital. Joe Hisaishi successfully brings the magic of the animated tale to the stage with apparently effortless style. We are about to reconnect with the child inside all of us.
The tale
Right away, the contrast between the bright lights of Tokyo and the quiet rural setting is evident, emphasising that the family are newcomers to the community. This sense of being outsiders not only adds an intriguing layer to their journey but also introduces a subtle gothic touch that isn’t as pronounced in the animated version.
This gothic atmosphere is further enhanced by the eerie presence of soot sprites in the creaky old house. Whispers of hauntings fill the air, reinforcing the house’s unsettling aura. The property is cared for by an elderly neighbour, affectionately known as ‘Granny’, who bears a striking resemblance to Granny Oldknow from The Children of Green Knowe. She reassures the girls, explaining that ‘if the soot sprites decide they like you, they’ll just leave you alone’. But this raises an unsettling question—what happens if they don’t?
The soot sprites soon recognise that the family are good people, and under the glow of the full moon, they take their leave, drifting away and granting the newcomers peace. It is then that Totoro and his friends make their first appearance, leaving behind a mysterious trail of acorns. Mei eagerly follows, leading to a whimsical moment where the creatures emerge from beneath the stage in a playful ‘whack-a-mole’-style reveal.
The show’s message is clear: be kind to nature, and the spirits of the forest will be kind to you. Yet beneath this gentle wisdom lies a more unsettling implication—what if one isn’t respectful? Could the forest spirits, so full of wonder and mischief, also be capable of something far more ominous? The girls are able to see the elusive forest spirits, as only children can. They are taken on a magical adventure in the enchanted forest under the giant Camphor tree that they, nor I, will ever forget.
Transformation: From screen to stage
In Hayao Miyazaki’s animated version, Mei is playing in the garden of the haunted cottage when she finds a broken bucket, looks through a hole in the bottom of it and sees a gleaming acorn winking at her from the grass. The film then takes viewers on a magical journey through the forest where we, along with Mei and Satsuki, encounter mystical creatures including ones that Mei dubs ‘totoro’ as that is what their vocalisations sound like to her child’s ears. These forest creatures resemble huge owls or badgers or bears and it is their refusal to fit into any particular folkloric or natural category that adds to their gothic nature. The film draws out the child inside us all.
Joe Hisaishi successfully recreated the feel of the original film and brought its magic to the stage. The giant Totoro, the cat bus and the soot sprites all adhered to the spirit and ethos of Studio Ghibli. In the manner of C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the girls enter into a magical land, the enchanted forest: a spooky place but an underwhelming atmosphere as the smoke machines created a somewhat half-hearted mist on the ground. The spirits are benevolent, and the girls are not frightened (though I think I would be!). They have a sense of child-like wonder. The forest spirits are playful and kind and protect the girls. Satsuki and Mei are fantastically portrayed, but the show is as much a testament to the skills of the puppeteers and the special effects team.
The stage adaptation of My Neighbour Totoro subtly weaves in gothic themes more distinctly than the animated film. The contrast between bustling Tokyo and the quiet countryside emphasises the family’s outsider status, adding a sense of isolation. The old, creaky house—rumoured to be haunted—intensifies the eerie atmosphere, especially with the appearance of soot sprites, mysterious and ghost-like entities. Granny, the caretaker, offers cryptic reassurance, hinting at the sprites’ unpredictable nature: they may leave you alone if they like you.
This ambiguity introduces a sinister undertone—what if the spirits aren’t kind? Even Totoro and his forest companions, though whimsical, resist categorisation and carry an uncanny, almost folkloric mystique. The children’s ability to see them while adults cannot adds a layer of magical realism, tinged with the eerie. While the spirits ultimately protect the girls, there’s an unspoken threat beneath the surface: nature is powerful, magical—and possibly dangerous if disrespected.
(Jane Gill is a doctoral student at the University of Hertfordshire. Her PhD examines the monstrous feminine in nineteenth-century literature from an eco-Gothic perspective.)
