Flow (2024)
Original title: Straume
Flow, directed by Gints Zilbalodis, is one of those rare animated films that sneaks up on you. Quiet, patient, and full of emotion, it tells its story without a single word of dialogue—yet somehow says more than most films do with pages of script.
Set in a post-apocalyptic world swallowed by rising waters, the film follows a black cat who survives on a makeshift sailboat after a devastating flood. Along the way, the cat ends up joined by a Labrador, a lemur, a capybara, and a secretary bird. Together, this oddball group of animals face the harsh new world with little more than each other to rely on. There’s no talking, no voiceover—just body language, instinct, and a shared will to live.
The lack of human presence isn’t just an aesthetic choice—it’s a quiet reflection on what happens when nature takes over. You can’t help but feel the looming shadow of climate change here. It’s a story about survival, but it also whispers questions about our own relationship with the natural world. What do we leave behind? What kind of world are we shaping?
Visually, Flow is a knockout. Created using Blender (yes, the open-source 3D software for those of you who know of it), it has a unique, painterly look—somewhere between realism and a dream. The cinematography is all about long, sweeping shots of flooded cities, overgrown trees reclaiming civilisation, and animals moving through it all with calm determination. The way the camera ‘floats’ along with the characters makes it feel like you’re right there with them, drifting on that little boat.
The use of colour is subtle but powerful. Muted tones dominate, giving the film a kind of calm sadness, while splashes of warmth—like golden light through mist or the deep green of moss-covered ruins—add life. It’s not flashy, but it’s layered and considered. Every scene feels lovingly put together.
And the water—oh my goodness, the water. It’s practically a character on its own. The animation captures it with such texture and movement that you can almost feel the weight of it pressing in from all sides. Sometimes it’s peaceful and glassy; other times it surges and crashes, reminding you that nature’s beauty can turn brutal in an instant.
Then there’s the music. Zilbalodis co-composed the score with Rihards Zaļupe, and it fits like a glove. Haunting, quiet, swelling when needed—it does the heavy lifting emotionally, filling the silence with a kind of poetic rhythm. Alongside the sound design—animal calls, wind, water lapping—it creates a soundscape that draws you in completely.
The pacing is slow, deliberately so. It asks for patience, rewarding those willing to settle into its rhythm. If you’re after fast thrills, this might not be your cup of tea. But if you let yourself be carried along, it becomes something kind of magical.
And here’s where it gets really impressive: despite being animated and wordless, the characters feel alive. The black cat is more expressive than most live-action leads, and the other animals—each with distinct movements and personalities—add texture to the group dynamic. It’s not just cute animal antics either. There’s real tension in how they learn to trust one another, a kind of emotional push-and-pull that mirrors how any group forms under stress.
From a production standpoint, the film’s modest $6 million budget is used to full effect. It’s proof that you don’t need blockbuster money to make something stunning—just vision and attention to detail. The environments are richly textured, and the animation, while stylised, carries emotional weight and realism.
So, what’s the verdict?
Flow is a gorgeous, moving film that speaks through visuals, sound, and silence. It’s a slower ride, but one worth taking if you’re open to something meditative and a little off the beaten path. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t explain. It just flows. And that’s exactly what makes it special.