Flow Shatters the Disney-Pixar Fantasy - Here’s Why
Made in Latvia on free software, Flow has zero Hollywood voices or Happy Meal toys. That didn’t stop it winning an Academy Award.
good.film
a month ago
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Are you up to date with your Latvian cinema lately?! Nope, us neither, but here’s your chance to change that. Flow is the beautiful, meditative new feature animation that’s storming the globe for its arresting approach to themes like trust, loss and change. Don’t sweat it if you can’t point to Latvia on a map – Flow tells its universal story seamlessly, and without a single word in ANY language. Who needs them when growls, squeaks and meows tell us everything?
Helmed by award-winning Latvian filmmaker and animator Gints Zilbalodis, Flow could easily be in the dictionary next to “underdog”. Incredibly, the entire film was created completely with the free 3D animation software Blender. But it’s so good that in March it clinched an amazing Oscar win, snatching the coveted Best Animated Feature trophy away from studio juggernauts like The Wild Robot and Inside Out 2 (which cost $200 million to make).
That’s seismic, and perhaps it’s a clue that audiences might be ready for a change. Instead of a celebrity voice cast or fast-food toy tie-ins, Flow relies on stunning, lifelike animation that’s a world away from Pixar, and an authentic story that doesn’t sugarcoat or sink to Disney moralising. It embraces the kind of lessons we WANT our children to learn: life doesn’t always reward us, or give us “reasons why”; sometimes bad things happen, and we just have to adapt. Rather than seeing the hundredth Trolls movie, Flow is far more likely to spark a meaningful conversation with the inquisitive younger mind in your life.
Flow looks and sounds different, too, hypnotising us with natural wonders. Zilbalodis employs lots of long and flowing camera moves that make us slow our brains down and pay attention to his wondrously lifelike animal characters. In a world of snappy, candy-coloured animation from big studios that seem panicked about holding kids’ attention, Flow is a meditative polar opposite. If you’re looking for the antidote for your child’s usual OTT screen time, this could be your wordless wonder.
It begins with a sudden flood, on an Earth that’s not quite our own – there’s no sign of humans. We’re right by our hero, a dark grey cat with huge expressive eyes (modelled on Zilbalodis’ own moggy) as she scrambles for the only safety she can find, an abandoned boat – abandoned, but not quite empty. Also sheltering aboard is a bewildered capybara, and they’re wary of each other as the boat sails into the sunset, then the moonlight. So what now?
How does Flow explore ideas like cooperation and trust?
Zilbalodis introduces me versus you ideas from pretty much the first scene, when Cat steals a fish from a pack of dogs. Hey, survival of the fittest, right? Choosing a cat as the protagonist is no accident. Naturally independent and capable, she rejects the other animals Flow brings into the story – at first. But when the flood waters rise alarmingly fast, these “enemies” are suddenly forced to band together. It’s easy to see the parallels to mankind’s own society (just turn on the news).
Overcoming mistrust is one of Flow’s core themes, and Zilbalodis personifies that with a ring-tailed lemur character, who soon hops aboard to Cat’s disgust. Lemur’s obsessed with collecting bottles and trinkets, a nice little metaphor for materialism. You’ll recognise in Lemur the kind of people who prioritise possessions over their friendships or environment. On the flip side, notice the scenes that reinforce the protection and safety that others (often strangers) can provide in a crisis – like when Cat is gently rescued from drowning by a passing whale.
“It was almost like a casting process where I was looking at different animals and considering how they might interact. I didn’t want any of them to be antagonists – I wanted each of them to be relatable. All of these characters were chosen thinking about that theme, which is looking for a group where you belong.”
~ Gints Zilbalodis
Zilbalodis deepens this idea when the boat bumps onto a patch of dry land, and an entire flock of long-legged, stork-like creatures (they’re actually secretarybirds) chase and corner Cat. Her fear is rendered really affectingly in her eyes before one Secretarybird steps in, wings spread in defence – and he’s attacked by his own kind. As the flock flies off, he goes to rejoin them, then stops. Is he injured, or has he made a choice to abandon the fold? It’s a powerful scene; a strong metaphor for our own herd mentality (read the comments section lately?!).
This odd group is now a crew of 5: Cat, Retriever, Lemur, Capybara and Secretarybird. All have different physicalities & behaviours, yet they’re stuck together on a small boat; dependent on each other for survival. Zilbalodis scatters in a handful of funny moments – yes, there’s furball and “chase the dot of light” gags – but they’re not throwaway. The humour underlines the characters’ differences, letting us laugh at them while they bond. They’re different species, but they share a common goal: finding dry land and securing themselves a safe future.
What does Flow have to say about concepts like adaptation and survival?
Whether you read Flow as a kind of allegory for our own environmental changes, societal changes, or something else entirely, it’s clear that the film prizes the idea of resilience above all else. To paraphrase Sam Cooke, change is gonna come. It’s how you react to it, and grow to cope with it, that really matters. So when the sea level rises dozens of stories high in Flow’s opening act (we can see ocean creatures drifting past the top of statues), Cat is isolated in an environment she’s never encountered. Surrounded by unknown risks, she leaps.
Zilbalodis quickly includes an interesting balance between “right now” and the long term. As the boat drifts past some trees, Capybara grabs a bunch of wild bananas, so their immediate needs are met. But what about the bigger picture? Being animated, Flow has the visual leeway to get our emotional pistons firing. Pay attention to when Cat climbs the mast to get her bearings, but instead of the view, we get a burst of ominous daydreams: temples under storm clouds; deer circling her, stamping. Rather than a literal threat, it’s a “What if?” for all kinds of fears. Translation? When we’re in a crisis, it’s easy to get carried away with worst-case scenarios – rather than just putting one foot (or paw) in front of the other.
The idea of adaptation kicks in harder mid-film, as Cat grows more comfortable with the surrounding water and starts fishing for food. Big props to the animators for these glowing underwater scenes; the fish are almost impossibly colourful, glinting like jewels as Cat snatches them one by one. Soon, there's a rainbow-coloured pile of fish on the boat, but that means more to Cat than simply being independently fed. She shares out the pile with Retriever and Secretarybird – selflessly giving back for their earlier protection. So Cat’s adapted not only to her environment, but shifted her behaviour and biases, too. Life lesson, kids!
Resilience isn’t just about physical survival, though, it’s mental too. Flow includes a few existential metaphors for the mental toll that “survival” can take on a person – whether it’s an extreme case, like surviving a flood, or the more relatable one of “surviving” the 9 to 5 grind. In one tense scene, the group are threatened by a kind of pirate gang of wild dogs; in another, the ocean roughens up dramatically as a storm rolls in. All the while, this pussy and her posse are drifting towards the impossibly tall, obelisk-like structures we've been watching draw ever closer, like menacing fingers on the horizon.
How does Flow hint at themes of loss?
This is where Flow could prove to be extremely meaningful, and even healing, to certain audiences. For example, kids who are grieving a loss (big or small) might find comfort in one of Flow’s key scenes, when Cat reaches the top of the mysterious tower and Secretarybird is waiting for her against the steely grey skies. Something magical happens there that we won’t spoil, but it’s an ethereal moment, with all the vivid beauty of Aurora Borealis. It’s not a stretch to say that what Cat experiences there is very symbolic of death and rebirth.
Afterwards, the boat has vanished, along with her friends. Soon the water disappears along with it – and Cat is alone, left to wander a lush new green landscape. Notice that the giant, overgrown stone temples she discovers have indigenous Incan vibes, a subtle reminder of the idea that humans might have already met our maker in this reality. Instead, the temples have been swarmed by Lemur and his buddies, who crowd around the shiny treasures he’s found. He’s back with his “people”, but Cat is, essentially, displaced – an environmental refugee.
She’s not the only victim on that front. Flow’s emotional crescendo comes when Cat enters a forest clearing to discover a whale lying among the trees, his breathing ragged and his fate seemingly sealed. As Cat peers into his huge blue eye, the sense of dialogue that Zilbalodis and his animation team convey between the two creatures is amazing. Is he the same whale that saved Cat’s life right at the start? Strong and thriving as the water rose, he now lies gasping as the flood waters recede. Why does his life end, and Cat survives? Again, having no neat answer feels more real than any Disney fairytale, because it IS more real. In this world, there’s no instant reward for the good or punishment for the bad. There just is.
So - what’s the takeaway from Flow?
Flow isn’t a long film, but as a cinema experience, it’s surprisingly immersive, even meditative. Shout out to the superb sound design, the animal sounds are so authentic (we’ll give a pass to Capybara – Zilbalodis revealed on socials that a real one didn’t quite sound right, so they cast a baby camel instead!). If you're the kind of person who falls asleep to the rustles and trills of nature in their Calm app, Flow will be a joy. It’s as gorgeous to listen to as it is to watch.
The overall artistry of both the landscapes and the animals is extremely skillful. From lapping reflections and waterlogged fur to gentle camera moves into the characters’ faces, it all communicates so much. Flow isn’t photoreal, but magically, it feels so realistic – hand-held and hand made, in a similar way to tactile stop-motion heroes like Wallace & Gromit and the work of Adam Elliott (both of which, by the way, Flow was up against in its Oscar category).
A bit like an Attenborough doco, Flow is a somewhat awe-inspiring reminder that the green rock we all live on can be unpredictably harsh. It’s natural that our news cycles focus on floods or fires; environmental disasters that threaten us. Flow zooms out to reset our perspective. It’s not about us. We’re almost brand new on this 4.5 billion year old ride, and we can’t control nature – but we can work together to navigate its challenges.
Flow is a simple story on its surface: animals teaming up to survive. Peer deeper, though, and there’s an emotional resonance here that audiences have clearly connected to. Whether it’s processing how to cope with personal loss, or the bigger idea that we need to rise above our divisions and differences to face an unstable environmental future, Flow effortlessly taps into something universal. Not bad for an underdog story. No, scratch that – we meant undercat.
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