Go With the Flow: The Animated Delight of Flow (2024)
It would be a considerable understatement to say that the technological boom at the end of the 20th century which brought about the internet age has not delivered on its promises of bringing a utopia.
It would be a considerable understatement to say that the technological boom at the end of the 20th century which brought about the internet age has not delivered on its promises of bringing a utopia. But if the tech dreamers seek to point to one piece of art to demonstrate the benefits this widely accessible technology has brought, a good candidate might be last year’s animated odyssey Flow, from Latvian filmmaker Gints Zilbalodis. The film is notable for a few reasons. First, because it was made by such a small team, about 40 to 50 people spread out between Latvia and two small animation companies in France and Belgium, and made entirely on the free open-source software Blender. Second, because its separation from any sizable animation institution allows it to pursue a novel concept: the characters of the film are all animals, but they are not anthropomorphized. They make animal noises and behave as animals would, and hence there is no dialogue. Third, because it is just plain dazzling, and one of the best films of 2024.
The film is set in a post-human world and has as its main character a black cat who is generally reclusive and fearful of others. A massive flood comes, submerging entirely the forest where the cat lives. Its only refuge is to hop aboard a small boat passing by, currently occupied by a capybara. More animals later find their way aboard the boat – a lemur with a motley collection of human artifacts, a golden retriever, a secretary bird with a broken wing – and they learn to live together while journeying through this flooded world.
The title Flow has a clear tie to the story of the film, which is primarily driven by the flow of water through its central flood and by the animals’ flowing with the water in their boat. But it just as much applies to the film’s visual style, which is largely made up of unbroken long takes going on several minutes at a time. In these shots, the virtual camera flies around following the animals as they race through the woods or plunge into the water or soar up into the sky. It tilts and pans rather than cutting when turning its attention from one thing to another. It’s a style of long take that echoes those of Alfonso Cuarón in his work with Emmanuel Lubezki. But without the logistics of a real camera in real space to manage, the freedom of these shots is magnified and their scale becomes even grander. These shots are not mere passing attractions, either; they compose the film’s most dynamic and action-heavy sequences, with the sections of more conventional cinematography serving more so as interludes.
The effect of these long takes is that they situate us as a participant in this journey rather than just an observer of it. Assuming the perspective of the camera, we ourselves are running through the woods and swimming through the water. We are one of the animals on the boat, trying to escape the flood, along for the journey. It is this grounded perspective, tied to that of the animals we follow, that contributes to the film’s greatest asset: its sense of wonder. There is clearly a fantastical element to the film’s world, but the film does not explain it. (Being a film without dialogue, it hardly can.) Humans are nowhere to be seen, yet their structures remain. The landscape is scattered with large sculptures of animals, their source unknown. The flood that incites the story comes out of nowhere, and especially given the film’s story is of a group of animals surviving the flood on a boat, the biblical connection is impossible to miss. All these fantastical elements we encounter as the animals do. We cannot understand them, we can only react to them as they come. The film’s most stunning moments, such as the surfacing of a whale, or the cat surrounded in the water by a swarm of fish, are of this kind. They place us and the characters we are following as just one small part of a much larger, mysterious, and magical world.
In its images of human structures grown over, monuments to some past decadence that has since vanished, Flow nestles itself comfortably amid the aesthetic of the green apocalypse, which has emerged with works like The Last of Us, Station Eleven, the Horizon video game series, and Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes. In these stories, the destruction of humanity becomes an opportunity for the world to reset itself, for nature to heal and reclaim its dominion over those that defied it. Some have interpreted Flow as a statement on climate change, with its great flood and absent humans. But really, the story is much more universal than any proclamation about the current state of humanity. It is about cooperation, about learning to overcome one’s fear of others and banding together to endure hard times. It is about finding companionship and belonging, giving help to others when they need it and receiving help in return. It is a story so universal, so immediately understandable, that it does not need any words to come across.
Flow is a testament to the value of having filmmaking technology accessible to anyone, and proof that one does not need an army to make a film that leaves an impact. It is a gorgeously animated film filled with wonder, told entirely in the universal language of cinema where words would be superfluous. Among the aspects of the film that I found particularly uplifting was the crowd it drew when I went to see it. Taking up seats in the auditorium on a Saturday afternoon there were equal parts middle-aged couples and groups of friends, young adults like me, and families bringing their children. We all sat there in the darkness, not unlike the animals in the boat, going on the film’s journey. The film may have its sights set beyond the current climate crisis, or any of the other immediate issues that threaten our existence, but if it has a message to take away on these concerns, it is that whatever floods may arise, we get through them together.
The Art Newsletter
Creativity. Culture. Community.
Every Thursday, we send a carefully curated drop of stories, tools, and creative insight for the next generation of artists, musicians, filmmakers, designers, and thinkers.
From cultural commentary to personal reflections, viral trends to overlooked gems. We cover what’s happening and what matters. Want local updates too? Join our Austin list for events, meetups, and opportunities.
Comments ()