Flow

A film of sublime magic and evocative imagery, as a cat flees a catastrophic flood and wanders into a journey of discovery alongside some unexpected companions.

“Flow” is one of those movies that doesn’t try to explain itself. It simply exists, unfurling its story like a banner based on some ancient mythology only recently rediscovered. It is timeless, evocative, and sublime.

I often hear people celebrate “pure cinema.” To me, this usually means a movie with a lot of self-loving imagery but not much in the way of a story. It’s a director who has fallen in love with their own shots, without any idea — sometimes, any inclination — to order them into any kind storytelling tapestry. It’s golden thread that nobody bothered to knit into something more.

“Flow” is gorgeous to look at, an animated film from Latvia (plus production work in France and Belgium) without any words and very spare use of music. But it is first and foremost an incredible story, a mix of adventure, parable and fantasy that feels immediate and weighty… dare I say, spiritual.

Directed by Gints Zilbalodis (“Away”), who also co-wrote the screenplay with Matīss Kaža, it’s the tale of a black cat living in a lush forest. It makes its home, of a sort, in a seemingly abandoned cottage that it sneaks into through a broken window. Surrounding it are sculptures of felines, seemingly made out of the very earth. Some are the same size as the cat, some a bit bigger, and one looms on the horizon like a skyscraper.

We never meet their creator.

One day, for no reason we can ever see, a catastrophic flood covers the land in a tidal wave. Cat had been playing a game of chase with a group of dogs, and and all are swept away. The water levels keep rising, and rising, until the cottage and all of their domain are underwater. Clearly this is not a single tsunami, but a rewriting of the face of the planet.

The cat finds its way onto an empty, passing sailboat. Various companions join it one by one. A capybara, grunting and standoffish. A yellow Labrador from the group of dogs with which the cat had tussled, friendly to the point of annoying. A lemur with a basket of collected trinkets it greedily guards, especially a golden mirror. An imperial secretarybird, which was wounded protecting the cat from its fellows.

You will likely notice that none of these animals would naturally get along, or even share the same corner of the Earth with each other. But over time they learn to act collaboratively and look out for each other.

They learn to steer their ship as it cruises through a variety of sunken lands, seemingly heading toward mammoth mountains in the distance, like stone fingers grasping to escape the flood. They have a variety of encounters along the way, some friendly and some not, including an underwater leviathan whose seemingly indifferent perambulations always work to the benefit of the cat and its companions.

The animation, which was rendered entirely on the open-source software Blender, is absolutely stunning. It has a very realistic cant to it, and the movements of the animals seem very authentic, and yet it never loses is lustrous, cartoon-y feel.

On the land, little wisps of pollen and insects dance in the air. Underwater, rainbow cascades of fish dance about, as if gleeful for having overtaken the dry land.

The cat, at first most disagreeable about all the water, gradually learns to adapt and even becomes a capable swimmer. Its sooty black coat and yellow eyes are its totems, flitting about the screen with feline grace and reserve. (The other animals might deem this snobbishness.)

I was surprised how emotional I became about the interactions of these thrust-upon companions. They are not anthropomorphized and each clings to their essential animal nature — the doofy dog, the playful lemur, the aloof secretarybird. Yet this little family endears themselves to each other.

Pure cinema, pure animation, pure magic — “Flow” is that, and more.