Director: Gints Zilbalodis
Platform: Amazon Prime
Rating out of 5:★★★★
I’ve always believed that the best stories don’t need a lot of words. Sometimes, all you
need is a film that just… vibes. Flow, the new animated film from Latvian director
Gints Zilbalodis, is that kind of film. It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t explain. It just drifts
and you drift with it. And somehow, that’s more than enough.
The premise is simple. A cat, alone, survives an unnamed flood that’s wiped out most
of the world. The cities are submerged. The humans are gone, or at least irrelevant.
What’s left is silence, water, and instinct. Along the way, the cat reluctantly gathers a
small crew of fellow animals; a lemur, a capybara, a loyal dog, a bird. They’re not
friends. Not at first. But they share the same boat, and in the end, that’s all that really
matters.
There’s something beautifully punk rock about this film. It was made with Blender, a
free open-source software that anyone can learn through YouTube, and a tiny team
working against the grain of every bloated, talky, focus-grouped studio animation.
There’s no dialogue. No narration. Just sound, movement, mood. It’s all atmosphere
and animal logic. Like wandering around in a new city you’ve never been to, where
nobody speaks your language and yet somehow, everything makes sense.
What struck me most was the restraint. The refusal to give it any flashy bells and
whistles. These aren’t wisecracking sidekicks or plush toys with catchphrases.
They’re animals behaving like animals – distant, cautious and occasionally generous.
The cat remains a cat. Cool. Independent. Alone, even among others. There’s
something deeply human in that, ironically.
The music in the film is ambient and organic, like waves lapping at the side of a
slowly sinking raft. It pulls you under, then lets you come up for air just when you
need to. It’s not manipulative. It just is.
Flow isn’t here to entertain you. It’s here to sit beside you for a while, maybe share
the silence, maybe tell you something without ever moving its mouth. It’s
melancholic, slow, and strange, but it’s also kind of perfect. Like some of the best
stories that touch you deeply, it doesn’t try too hard. It just shows up, as it is, and lets
you come to it.
You won’t leave with a tidy message or a box ticked. But you might leave feeling
something rare: a little quieter, a little more connected, and a little more okay with not
having all the answers.
That’s more than I can say for most films. Four stars. No notes.
