Review: “Flow” is a gripping, gorgeous fable

Latvian animated film rivals anything from U.S. studios.

Last Friday night, our area was hit by the season’s first major snowfall. Nothing serious – I think we topped out at three inches – but enough to make us hunker down for the evening. My kids asked to watch a movie, and I wasn’t in the mood for something we’d seen a million times (all love to Nicolas Cage, but if I have to watch The Croods one more time, I’m going to gouge my eyes out).

I had a chance to see Flow late last year, but the opportunity came at the tail end of our screening season. I had my list locked and ready to go and was pretty movie’d out by that point, so I ignored it. In a year for great animated films – including my #3 movie of the year – I began to see the film topping several lists of critics I respected; when it won the best animated feature at the Golden Globes last week, I thought maybe I should pay attention. So I suggested it to my kids.

My son was having none of it, particularly when he found it was an animated film about cats, dogs and other animals – and that they don’t speak. “You want us to watch a movie where they don’t talk,” he asked incredulously (and also meaning my backup plan probably wouldn’t go over well either). But when I told him the option was either Flow or bed, he made some popcorn and sat down.

And, 90 minutes later, he told me, “Wow. That was a really good movie.”

And he’s right. Gints Zibaldolis’ movie has the depth and insight of a fable, but it’s told with beautiful simplicity, and can be understood by audiences of most ages. As much as I love The Wild Robot, this probably would have topped it on my list.

The film takes place in a world that might be our own, although its architecture and structure hint at something more fantastical. There are no humans anywhere, although hints of civilization can be found in the rowboats that dot the landscape (or hang in trees), massive empty cities, and homes in which relics of their everyday life are left behind.

Cat, the film’s protagonist, lives in one such home. It’s obvious Cat had a human owner who person doted on Cat. Feline sculptures adorn the yard, and the house where Cat sleeps has sketches and tiny figures of the animal as decorations. When the flood waters begin to rise again, Cat leaves the house to seek shelter. Although she (I’m guessing at pronouns here) prefers to be left alone and is easily spooked, Cat soon makes the acquaintance of a capybara who nudges her along, a lemur who collects human trinkets, a hyper and loyal Golden Retriever, and a protective secretary bird who protects. The animals board a sailboat and seek safety.

My son was right that there is no dialogue in Flow – it’s not needed. The animals aren’t anthropomorphized; they move and behave just as they would in the wild. And yet, they have their own personality, from the cat’s aloofness to the dog’s constant energy and silliness; the lemur is curious and obsessed with trinkets, but the comparisons the film might be making toward vanity or materialism feel more subtle because its woven into such a naturalistic story.

Flow captures the feeling of what it’s like to live in a world on the brink of disaster, but with enough hints of myth to avoid making it feel like a dirge or blunt allegory (it’s suggested that the floods may be cyclical). You can’t really escape the suggestion of climate change in a world where a flood is overtaking civilization, but the cities look like something out of a fairy tale. There’s a spiritual or cosmic event late in the film that hints at a bigger story potentially happening outside of our view (it also works as a beautiful metaphor for sacrifice and death).

It doesn’t really matter why the flood is happening or in which world this story occurs. This is a story about how we survive when the world is ending. Similar to the back half of The Wild Robot, Flow is about the importance of unity and interdependence in order to ride out the storm; like the TV show “Lost,” it suggests that we either live together or die alone. And because this tale unfolds without humanizing the animals or bluntly stating its lessons, the theme feels more primal and resonant.

But you don’t need to go into this searching for themes; it also works as a thrilling and often gently funny adventure. The animals encounter obstacles – rocky waters, predators and jerkass dogs – but there’s nothing too dark for younger kids. The animation is gorgeous; in addition to the natural movements of its characters, the locations seem drawn from games like Myst, their own mysteries lost to time. Zilbalodis’ “camera” moves, exploring its locales from different perspectives; the boat is seen from so many angles that it feels like a tactile place. And while some might complain that the animation looks a bit primitive – there’s certainly a sense in which some moments feel like videogame cutscenes – it adds to its otherworldly quality. Because there’s no one to deliver backstory or exposition, it’s a movie that is always in motion, propelled by its characters’ actions. It feels like no other animated movie I’ve seen in years; the best example I might be able to give is the first 20 minutes of Wall-E (and even that has Fred Ward popping up).

Flow is simple, exciting and funny enough to capture kids, but like many of the best animated films, it’s not a kids’ movie. Its themes of living in a world beset by disaster are ones we all need right now, and in its deeper and calmer moments, there’s a tranquil beauty that few films take the time to enjoy. I’m bummed I’m catching up with this one too late to do my 2024 voting; I’m thrilled to have seen it at all.