or better or worse, we here at Stylus, in all of our autocratic consumer-crit greed, are slaves to timeliness. A record over six months old is often discarded, deemed too old for publication, a relic in the internet age. That's why each week at Stylus, one writer takes a look at an album with the benefit of time. Whether it has been unjustly ignored, unfairly lauded, or misunderstood in some fundamental way, we aim with On Second Thought to provide a fresh look at albums that need it.

Hayao Miyazaki's wonderful film, My Neighbor Totoro, is a little like Boards of Canada's Music Has the Right to Children minus the ennui. It's technically a children's film, but it is, I think, a children's film told from the perspective of someone remembering the joy, the fear, and (above all) the magic of his own childhood and attempting to recapture all those feelings by following the stories of two young girls in 1950s Japan. Of course, since this is a film, the "magic" of childhood is real, not imaginary, so we actually meet magical, squishy creatures called totoros (which roughly translates to "ghosts" in English), little black balls with eyes called "soot sprites," and a Catbus, which is literally a giant cat in the shape of a bus whose eyes act as headlights.

The presence of such cute, magical characters would normally suggest a film saturated in the many Disney clichés. Indeed, there are elements here that could easily turn this film into a cliché—absent parent, cute animals and children, tragedy, flirting. However, this is a film by Miyazaki, Japan's master animator and intelligent storyteller. In his hands, potential clichés are simply molded into intelligent, poignant, and even compelling scenes, characters, and stories.

For example, the absent parent, the mother, is neither dead nor deadbeat; she's in the hospital recovering from an illness. It is her absence that shadows the activities of the main characters in the story—Satuski, her young sister, Mei, and their father, a college professor. As the story opens, the three are journeying to a new house in the country, at the base of an enormous camphor tree. The house, we learn, is close to the convalescent home where the girl's mother is staying.

From the film's first moments, we sense that this is a real family, and the events that follow introduce us to the hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows of these people. We see the girls' joyful first glimpse of the new house and their exploration of every corner of every room. We see the family doing laundry, preparing lunch, taking a nap, bathing, going to school, and meeting the neighbors. We see the excitement on the girls' faces as they wait expectantly for their father to emerge from a bus. We see the mixture of confusion and anxiety on their faces when their father is not on the bus. These are little moments, but they tell us everything we need to know about these characters, and they allow us to fully appreciate the role that the totoros play in the girls' lives. The totoros represent the magic of love, compassion, generosity, and support; they reveal themselves only when they are needed. The bus stop experience is one of these occasions. As the girls wait at the bus stop for their father to arrive on the next bus, the giant totoro comes to stand next to them. They play games with the falling rain, the wet trees, and the girls' umbrellas; then, as the cat bus arrives to take the totoro away, he hands the girls a tiny gift of acorns. When, moments later, their father returns, he is greeted with laughter, joy, and happiness, not tears, fear, and confusion. In other words, thanks to the totoro, these two frightened girls—girls whose mother is in the hospital and whose father is nowhere to be seen—forget their worries, gain strength and stamina, and survive this tiny ordeal.

It's moments like these that make My Neighbor Totoro such a wonderful film, a film that can be appreciated by just about anyone, no matter how young or old. But, you are probably wondering, what does all of this have to do with Joe Hisaishi's soundtrack? Well, everything. In many ways, the soundtrack is the film. Film music is crucial to the success of a film—not so much because it adds anything to the plot but because it offers us (in the words of film theorist Kaja Silverman) an "acoustic mirror" into the hearts and minds of the characters. The soundtrack to My Neighbor Totoro is a perfect mirror into Satsuki and Mei. The girls' first footsteps into the new house are accompanied by a hopping, bouncing beat that echoes their fluttering hearts as they discover one new treasure after another. Mei's first, startling encounter with the totoros is echoed in fluttering strings, tinny glockenspiels, and boisterous trumpets. The music accompanying the scary moments in the film (like the aforementioned bus stop scene) perfectly balances the apprehension in the girls' hearts with their brave and determined exterior expressions. In short, each moment of Hisaishi's soundtrack provides a perfect complement for the film's narrative and character development.

But I'm reviewing the soundtrack album, not the soundtrack heard in the film. How does the album hold up? Well, I must say that viewing the film before listening to the soundtrack is crucial. Those friends of mine who have never seen Totoro but have heard the album find it interesting but not very memorable. This lukewarm reaction is due largely to the opening song, which is (I'll admit it) a pretty cheesy Japanese kiddie "sing-along" pop song that is no better than the theme songs to any of the countless crapfests put out by Disney. Take that song out, and the album as a whole sounds a whole lot better. Still, I'd recommend seeing the film first and then listening to the soundtrack; that's really the only way to fully appreciate the subtlety and magic in this music.

What's most interesting about this music is its uncanny ability to blend very Japanese musical ideas with very western influenced musical instruments. Totoro is a very Japanese film, and many of the central ideas found in the film—the tie between humans and nature, the acceptance of magic and spirits, the inherent power of inanimate objects—show up in the music. Piercing electronic stabs, like gigantic raindrops, echo in and around soft, whispering strings in the wonderful "Drenched Spirit." The fluttering evanescence of the soot sprites is echoed in the plucking of a synth keyboard and a swirling orchestral exclamation. In short, the soundtrack is filled with musical echoes of the creatures that populate this film—human, spirit, or natural. The fact that Hisaishi uses predominantly western-influenced instruments (including many electronic ones) suggests that these creatures and their attendant sounds are just as comfortable in the west as they are in the east.

The soundtrack to My Neighbor Totoro isn't as good as the movie, but there's virtually nothing as good as this film. Taken on its own terms, this soundtrack is worth checking out. There are more wonderful, engaging, surprising, and flat-out delightful moments in this soundtrack to entertain anyone for days (I can attest to that). All the emotions found in the film—the joys and the fears, the laughter and the confusion—are vividly echoed in this disk's twenty tracks, making this a very mature and compelling listen by any account. In a world of ignorance, fear, hate, and idiotic leaders, it's good to know that works like these are around to remind us that life is more interesting and magical than it appears on TV.