Bring this Miyazaki show to NYC

LONDON — It’s one of the most stunning theatrical images in years. In an otherwise pitch-black theater, two giant eyes blink open and float to the front of the deep stage to reveal they belong to a humongous, fuzzy bear. Or is it a penguin? Or Pikachu?

At this point, I don’t know whose eyes are wider — ours or Totoro’s.

He’s the huggable, plump forest spirit from “My Neighbour Totoro,” and the big guy is packing the seats at London’s Barbican Theatre where the Royal Shakespeare Company is presenting a world-premiere play adaptation of Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli’s classic 1988 animated film.

Not only is director Phelim McDermott’s wondrous production, with ingenious puppets by Basil Twist, a welcome return to live spectacle — few shows since theaters reopened in London and New York have been truly large scale — it balances jaw-dropping effects with soul and emotional intelligence. 

“Totoro” is not, unlike Broadway’s miserable “King Kong,” a one-monkey show masquerading as an old-fashioned musical. It is a sweet story, lifted by music, of two little girls’ first encounter with hardship and the friends — and jubilant magical spirits — who help them along the way.

Some grouches might kvetch that the characters are too warm; and the tale’s too nice. There are no claws-out villains here a la the meanies from other kid-centric shows, such as Miss Hannigan from “Annie,” Fagin from “Oliver!” and Miss Trunchbull from “Matilda.” It’s not a musical, and there are no weepy ballads to wring out tears. Pre-teens don’t do jazz squares.

However, young Satsuki (Ami Okumura Jones) and Mei’s (Mei Mac) circumstance — their mom is gravely ill in the hospital, forcing them and their dad Tatsuo (Dai Tabuchi) to move to an unfamiliar town to be closer to her — hits harder than eccentric, cartoonish adults with silly hair behaving like Mr. Burns. Many grown-ups in the crowd will have endured some version of this relatable story.

McDermott, in a spot-on choice for Miyazaki, is also not chasing the sort of sobs and bombast that the Barbican has hosted plenty of times before (the RSC’s “Les Misérables” premiered in this very theater in 1985). “Totoro” is an easily embraceable family play that finds glorious epicness in its clever imagery.

The show, set in 1955 Japan, starts off intimately as Satsuki, Mei and Tatsuo arrive in a rural town against a pretty painted drop of lush, green hills. 

A band hovers above upstage in the trees playing pastoral songs, suffused with whimsy and woodsy atmosphere, written by Joe Hisaishi.

Quickly, the first visual whopper comes when a dilapidated house bigger than my apartment takes the stage and rotates to expose all of its rooms. We learn that the clan’s new dwelling is haunted. Stringy black soot sprites (in Miyazaki’s “Spirited Away,” too), puppeteered on metal wires by an Olympian cast, inhabit it like bats, and Mei and Satsuki shriek when they discover them. Yet, what at first appears terrifying, is actually friendly and majestic.

More spirits whoosh in like a reverse Russian doll, from smallest to largest.

We encounter titanic Totoro lying down mid-nap in the woods. An elated Mei climbs on his belly while he snores, and the big lug spins around the stage. A child’s dream come to life.

Later on, the huge neon-orange cat bus rolls in. (It’s exactly what you think it is.) As we gawk at Totoro and the vehicular feline, it’s as though we are watching a revisionist “Godzilla vs. Mothra” in which the two monsters make up and have a tea party.

The acting, in stark contrast to London’s other puppet show, the poorly written “Life of Pi,” is first-rate. At first I questioned having adults play children, but soon realized it’s required to replicate Miyazaki’s anime-style young people.

For example, Kanta, a little boy who lives nearby, nervously fidgets because he’s scared of girls. The exceptional Nino Furuhata blows up these tics, tugs and grimaces in a tender, very funny way that an actual child actor couldn’t pull off.

And as the siblings, Jones and Mac forge a believable bond, and sink their teeth into how meaningful a couple years difference can be at that age. We’re moved watching Satsuki step up and take charge as the responsible big sister, and shattered when Mei cries sitting on the ground, convinced her very existence is hurting her sick mother.

You see? It’s not that light.

Will “Totoro” soon become our neighbor in Times Square?

Miyazaki has massive worldwide appeal, and “Totoro” is one of the filmmaker’s biggest screen hits. The RSC, meanwhile, hasn’t had such a hot seller since “Matilda,” and at the Barbican, teen fans were wearing anime dresses and clutching stuffed Totoros. The show is eyeing the Gillian Lynne Theatre in the West End for a transfer. And Broadway should be next. 

There’s a proven market for it. “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child” has helped condition family audiences to enjoy spectacular plays with no dancing or earworms. The Lyric Theatre would make a good house for “Totoro,” come to think of it.

There is some work still to be done on the show. McDermott could summon more power from the smaller moments with townsfolk, and scatter additional splendor throughout. The end of Act I, without spoiling anything, has got to be full-bore “Secret Garden” to send the audience breathlessly into intermission.

But, as it stands, “Totoro” should be spirited all the way to Broadway.