Animation is at an all-time high.
Between titles like Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), Arcane (2021), and Cyberpunk: Edgerunners (2022), animation has been leading an innovative approach to storytelling, combining artistry with technology while maintaining relatability. And no other movie exemplifies this today quite like Flow (2024).
I initially picked this movie for two reasons.
First, it won Best Animated Feature at the 97th Academy Awards and the Golden Globe Awards. I don’t entirely subscribe to the idea that awards are a reliable standard for judging a movie’s quality — art is subjective, after all — but I have a soft spot for the animation category. Too often, animated films are dismissed as entertainment solely for children, which no longer holds true. Seeing animated movies celebrated and embraced by both critics and casual moviegoers alike is something to behold.
Second, with a runtime of just one hour and 30 minutes, I could sit back and unwind on a Saturday evening, bowl of instant noodles in hand.
As I watched, however, it quickly became clear that this movie is not for everyone, nor is it something to watch if you’re looking to relax. But what is undeniable is that it is a stunning achievement in animated storytelling.
Flow (2024) is an animated adventure film by Gints Zilbalodis. It follows a black cat in a post-apocalyptic world devoid of humans. As rising floodwaters threaten its day-to-day life, the cat crosses paths with a capybara, a ring-tailed lemur, a Labrador retriever, and a secretary bird, all of whom are simply trying to survive the unpredictable nature of their new world.
Flow premiered in May 2024 at the Cannes Film Festival, where it won critical acclaim and ultimately earned Latvia its first Academy Award. This achievement underscored the power of independent animation and visual storytelling, proving that it can compete with the industry’s biggest studios. It went up against major productions like Inside Out 2 and The Wild Robot.
The behind-the-scenes story is just as inspiring. Production took five and a half years, with the team using free, open-source software to complete the film. Considering that they had to animate water — one of the most difficult elements to render — and make it a constant presence throughout the movie, the result is nothing short of remarkable. Without the pressure of harsh studio deadlines, Zilbalodis and his team were able to refine every detail, ensuring the final product told the exact story they envisioned.
The fact that the film had no deleted scenes speaks volumes; every frame of animation had a purpose. No effort was wasted, and no animals were harmed in the making of this film.
A dialogue-free story, on paper, shouldn’t work. And yet, Flow does. By forgoing spoken words, it heightens everything else. The challenge lay in how the film could communicate its message, and it accomplished this through clever techniques. The camera movement was intentional, minimizing cuts to give viewers a stronger sense of time passing. Many scenes unfold in long, unbroken shots that follow the characters, immersing us in their journey and making us feel as if we are right there with them.
The film also makes us relate to these animals by assigning them time-tested archetypes. The capybara is gentle and nurturing. The ring-tailed lemur is eccentric and self-serving. The Labrador retriever is naive and playful. The secretary bird is a staunch defender of the weak. And the cat is the unwilling adventurer whose world is upended by disaster. It may simplify these traits, but the message is clear. We recognize these archetypes because they reflect human nature. In times of crisis, we instinctively help one another.
My partner gave me the most important piece of the puzzle for this week’s column. While we watched Flow together, she introduced me to an Aeon article titled “The Miracle of the Commons.” The article examines two contrasting ideas about human nature. The first, from ecologist and biologist Garrett Hardin’s 1968 essay “The Tragedy of the Commons,” argues that humans, when given freedom, will inevitably pursue their own interests at the expense of others. The second, a counterpoint by political scientist Elinor Ostrom, suggests the opposite, that through cooperation, empathy, and shared responsibility, communities can preserve resources and support one another without selfish exploitation.
For Flow, this theme is central. One scene in particular embodies this idea. The main characters, drifting on a makeshift sailboat, encounter a group of stranded dogs. A debate unfolds over whether they should risk their own survival to help. The capybara pleads with the secretary bird, who hesitates.
For a moment, I forgot I was watching a capybara grunt at a large bird, begging to let the dogs aboard. I was completely absorbed in the dilemma. These dogs had been introduced as a rowdy bunch, yet it was deeply moving to see the main cast ultimately choose compassion even when they didn’t have to.
I went into Flow blind. No trailers, no clips — nothing. I expected a relaxing animated film. Instead, I found myself gripping my seat, genuinely fearing for the lives of these characters. They were distinct and memorable, and against the backdrop of a world devoid of hope, I felt as if I had grown alongside them on their journey.
This movie deserved every award and accolade it received. If this is the beginning of a new age in animated storytelling, then I can’t wait to see what comes next.
