There’s a particular kind of magic in studio Ghibli films, particularly My Neighbour Totoro. For those of us who grew up with it, the film is more than just animation – it’s comfort, childhood, and the quiet wonder of the world made visible. Bringing that to life on stage? Seemingly impossible. And yet, Basil Twist, master puppeteer and something of a legend in his field, has done exactly that.
Speaking to him, it’s clear that puppetry, for Twist, is not just technical craft – it’s belief. From his groundbreaking underwater work in Symphonie Fantastique to his collaborations with Jim Henson’s team, his career has been driven by this simple but profound idea: that objects hold life, and we can coax it out of them if we choose to see it. We sat down to talk Totoro, childhood imagination, and the life changing power of Sesame Street.
My Neighbour Totoro is such a visually iconic film. What was the biggest challenge in translating its animated magic into live puppetry?
Well, the scope of the actions in the film is demanding, but the biggest challenge was how beloved it is. People hold it so dearly in their memories. You can’t just make it great – it has to be right. It has to feel true to what people already know and love. That pressure hangs over everything: you cannot disappoint the fans.
Was there a particular aspect that was the trickiest?
Totoro himself. He’s so iconic, and turning him from two-dimensional animation into a real, living presence on stage was a huge challenge. We ended up needing multiple Totoro puppets – each designed for a specific scene or action – to get it right. It was a lot more work, but absolutely necessary to make him feel authentic.
The closest thing I’ve seen to that is Spirited Away at the London Coliseum a few months ago.
Yeah, Toby’s [Toby Olié’s] work was amazing. A lot of the same makers worked on both productions, so there’s definitely a shared DNA. But they’re very different – both in style and in source material.
Right, there’s a clear contrast in style.
Absolutely. Spirited Away is packed with fantastical characters and wild action. Totoro is the opposite – it’s restrained, mellow. Sometimes almost nothing happens, and that’s part of its charm. The whole focus is on Totoro himself – he’s the heart of it all. We had to centre everything around him. Even though we drew from Japanese puppetry traditions, Totoro had to feel singular – more than just another fantastical creature.
You’ve talked before about the puppeteers in Totoro – how they’re more than just operators, that they almost become spirits themselves. Can you tell me about the term ‘Kazego’ and how it shapes both their performance and how they’re perceived?
Yeah, that’s part of how they act as storytellers. We started with the kabuki tradition of visible stagehands – Kuroko, which means ‘person in black.’ They’re present but meant to disappear. You see the same in Bunraku puppetry. But for Totoro, we wanted to go further. The puppeteers became part of the world – not just operators but spirits in the house and forest.
That ties into Miyazaki’s use of Shinto spirituality – where everything has a spirit, from trees to streams to the wind. We actually use air to animate a lot of the puppets – to fill them, to move them. That’s where the name Kazego came from; it roughly means ‘wind spirits.’ It just stuck. So, when you see them on stage, they’re not just manipulating puppets – they’re part of the story’s fabric.
That’s so charming. I love that – wind spirits.
Shows like Fraggle Rock, Sesame Street, and The Muppets introduced so many people to puppetry. Did they influence your decision to become a puppeteer?
Oh, for sure. I’m a bit older than you – I was really the Sesame Street generation. I was born in ’69, so I was the perfect age when it started. And The Muppet Show – I was obsessed. Working with the Henson Company on Totoro was a dream come true.
Henson worked on Totoro?
Yeah, a lot of people worked on it, but the Henson team were crucial. They’re masters of fur. Getting Totoro’s fur right – how it moved, how it felt – was vital. You look at Fraggle Rock or The Muppets, and you feel like you know what those textures are like. That’s what Henson brought. It was the perfect choice, especially because I was working from the States during the pandemic. I needed the best people, and they are the best. What Henson did for puppetry around the world is immeasurable.
Is there a particular moment from Sesame Street that still inspires you?
I can’t think of a single moment – it’s more the world they built. Those characters felt alive. You’d see celebrities interacting with them, and it was completely believable. The puppets seemed more real because of how people treated them.
They had the advantage of the camera frame – you didn’t see what was below – but beyond that, you saw the belief. That’s the magic of puppetry – whether it’s Henson, War Horse, or Totoro. It’s not ‘suspension of disbelief’; it’s just belief. You know it’s cloth and foam, but you believe in it. That belief is powerful. People don’t just believe in the puppet – they believe in the idea of it. Sometimes, an idea is more powerful than the real thing. The puppet horse in War Horse can be more moving than a real horse. And Totoro – he’s an idea, a spirit, a feeling. Everyone needs a Totoro hug. Bringing that idea to life – that’s a privilege.
That’s amazing. I’m moved by how moved you are talking about it. It’s so beautiful.
Your Symphonie Fantastique is renowned for its underwater puppetry. What inspired you to explore that medium, and what challenges did you face?
It started as an experiment. I wanted to explore abstract puppetry – letting raw materials like fabric and objects float freely in water, rather than shaping them to represent something. I brought it to London in 2000 for the Mime Festival with a giant aquarium, and it ended up being a hit.
It opened my eyes to the idea that materials have their own life force – the way fabric moves, the texture of fur – and that’s something I still bring into my work today, even when creating more literal characters like Totoro. Working underwater was tough, though – wet, heavy, and destructive. I learned a lot, including that it’s often easier to work out of the water. Still, it was a career-defining piece.
As the only American graduate of the École Nationale Supérieure des Arts de la Marionnette in France – there, I said it – how did that training influence your artistic approach?
It was incredible. I feel so lucky to have had that experience. It connected me to the seriousness of puppetry as an art form. Growing up in America, I was steeped in The Muppets – fun, lovable, but very entertainment-focused. When I got to Charleville-Mézières, I was introduced to a whole other world – a global tradition of puppetry, rooted in folk cultures, driven by artists who had dedicated their entire lives to the craft.
The school itself was rigorous, but more than anything, it taught me how to think for myself. It wasn’t just about technical skills – it was about asking: What haven’t I seen? What can puppetry be beyond what I know? That curiosity led me to abstraction – something they weren’t teaching me explicitly, but the environment encouraged me to explore it.
It also gave me a sense of responsibility. I came away feeling like I owed something to puppetry – a duty to elevate the form, to bring my full sensitivity, skill, and experience to every project. That ethos has stayed with me ever since. It was a turning point. I don’t think I’d have had the career I’ve had without that time in France.
Have you been back since?
Oh, all the time. Charleville is this odd little town in northern France, but it’s the puppetry capital of the world. It started with an international puppetry festival during the Cold War – a way to bring people together across borders, through this art form rooted in enchantment. That festival still happens every two years. It’s the biggest gathering of puppeteers in the world.
I go to see friends, see shows, and sometimes bring work back to New York. It’s where you meet puppeteers from Japan, Brazil, Russia – everywhere. As students, we got to meet masters from across the globe. That’s stayed with me. It’s still the hub, the heart of the puppetry world. And yeah, I’m still proud to be the only American who’s graduated from that school.
You’ve mentioned leaning towards more abstract work like Symphonie Fantastique and Dogugaeshi. Do you prefer that to narrative-driven projects like Totoro, and how does your creative process differ?
I wouldn’t say I prefer one over the other – they each offer something different. I’m very visual, and when I create my own work, it’s often driven by music or materials, not text. With Symphonie Fantastique, it was about letting the materials move freely, finding their own life. That process expanded my whole understanding of puppetry.
With a narrative show like Totoro, it’s more precise. Totoro has to be exactly right – the colour, the proportions, every detail. Our Japanese collaborators were particular, and rightly so. But I still bring that abstract mindset with me. There’s a scene in Totoro where strips of silk move through the air, evoking the forest. It’s simple and abstract, but it breathes life into the scene.
So, even when I’m working on something more literal, the lessons from abstraction – trusting the materials, letting them guide you – are always present. Both approaches feed each other.
I have two daughters, and my six-year-old can pick up anything and see it as alive. It’s something many people lose as they grow up. Beyond puppetry, how do you nurture your inner child?
Oh, I don’t think I ever grew up. I mean, I’m lucky – I get to do what I love, and it’s inherently playful. Working with Phelim McDermott, our director, really reinforces that. He’s got such a strong sense of play. Even when we’re remounting a show, he keeps it fresh.
And for me, I try to make sure that in any project, people are having fun. Puppetry can be hard – uncomfortable, exhausting – but it has to be fun. If it’s not, something’s wrong.
One thing I loved hearing you talk about was how the cast reacted to meeting the puppets for the first time. How did that initial excitement evolve as they took on the responsibility of bringing him to life?
The first time the cast saw the puppets, it was incredible – especially since we have an all-East Asian cast, and Totoro is huge in the Asian world. These were their childhood heroes, suddenly real and in front of them. That alone was amazing.
But then, they don’t just meet Totoro – they become part of bringing him to life. At any moment, up to ten people might be working together to animate him. And they take so much pride in it. Some people are literally just working Totoro’s left foot – but it’s Totoro’s left foot. And that’s worth crawling on your belly under a giant furry mass for. It’s beautiful to see how much love they put into it. Totoro inspires that in people.
Absolutely – it’s something that develops over time. I always wish there was more time for people to bond with the puppets, but you see the shift happen. I try to make the puppets intuitive, so they feel natural to operate. Some cast members have puppetry experience, but many don’t, and yet everyone has to puppeteer at some point.
Often, people start out thinking, “I’m not good at this,” but I always tell them – everyone has a puppeteer inside them. It’s innate. We all know how to tap a rhythm on a table; we all know how to bring something to life. That belief is the most important part – the technical bits like positioning and posture can all be learned later.
As rehearsals progress, you see people improve. I encourage them to use a mirror or watch themselves on video – that self-awareness is key. They’ll think they’re raising an arm high, but then they see it back and realise it’s not enough – so they adjust.
Because it’s a long-running show, we also train swings and covers. That creates this culture of knowledge-sharing, which is beautiful to watch. Puppeteers pass on their understanding – the subtle reasons behind every movement, every glance. That internal monologue of the puppet isn’t written down, it’s discovered. And when performers teach each other, it cements the work.
Each action gains weight and meaning. Puppetry is this amazing blend of acting, technical precision, and visual artistry. It touches every part of the production – rehearsal, lighting, video, the set itself. It’s the crossroads of everything, which is fitting – Totoro is the heart of the story, and puppetry is the heart of the show.
With the resurgence of puppetry in mainstream theatre, where do you see the future of this art form heading?
I think puppetry will always have a place in storytelling because it taps into something primal – our innate ability to believe in something brought to life before our eyes. While technology continues to advance, and digital tools offer new possibilities, I believe there’s a growing hunger for tangible, handcrafted artistry. Puppetry gives people something real, something they can see moving in front of them. That’s becoming even more valuable in a world where so much is virtual.
That said, I do think we’ll continue to see exciting fusions of puppetry with new media, projections, and even artificial intelligence. But at its core, puppetry’s magic lies in its simplicity – the raw, immediate connection between a performer, an object, and the audience. And that will never go out of style.
Receiving the MacArthur Fellowship grant must have been life-changing. How has that recognition impacted your career?
It was an incredible honour. I’d been working for a while by then, but to have puppetry recognized alongside fields like science, poetry, and activism – it was validating, not just for me but for the art form itself. Puppetry can be whimsical and playful, but it’s also serious work, and this helped solidify that in the eyes of others.
There are moments when you wonder if you should’ve chosen a different path – studied something more conventional – but that award made me think, no, I did the right thing. Watching The Muppet Show every day? Going to puppet school? That was the right path.
And it’s serious in that it brings joy into the world, right?
Exactly. But it also taps into something deeper – what it means to be alive. Puppetry asks that question: What is life? What makes something feel alive? Children connect to it so naturally because they’re closer to that mystery.
It’s not “serious” in a heavy-handed way – it’s profound in how it sneaks up on you. Sometimes it’s through a Fraggle, sometimes it’s Totoro, but at its core, puppetry invites us to explore the mystery of life. And that’s pretty extraordinary.
What advice would you give to aspiring puppeteers today?
Just go for it. Play, make, explore. Puppetry is such a vast world – you can enter it from so many angles. Whether you come at it from acting, visual arts, engineering, or storytelling, there’s space for you. Seek out performances, find a community, learn from others, and most importantly, make things. Even if it’s just you in your room with some scraps of fabric, start experimenting.
London, in particular, has an amazing puppetry scene. There are great artists working here, and I feel really fortunate to be part of that. If you’re curious about puppetry, there are resources, workshops, and performances all around you. Immerse yourself in it – you never know where it might take you.
It’s been such a pleasure talking to you, Basil. Thank you for your time.
Thank you. And listen – you have to bring your daughters to the show. It’s essential. There are two sisters in the film, right? When I showed it to my nieces, it was next level seeing how much they connected with it. You have to bring them.
Consider it done! Thank you so much again, we’ll see you there. Happy rehearsing.
Thank you. Bye!
My Neighbour Totoro will be at the Gillian Lynne Theatre from 8 March 2025.
Book your tickets at totoroshow.com
Words by Nick Barr
Production photos by Manuel Harlan
Basil Twist photo by Billy Erb
