To see one's own reflection is to get immediate proof of your existence in the here and now—of the space you occupy in the world and perhaps even clues to how the world perceives you. And through that miracle of self-awareness, you may perhaps extend empathy to those around you, also burdened with navigating the perennial compilations of being alive.
The dialogue-free, 3DCG animated feature "Flow," from Latvian director Gints Zilbalodis, is bookended by animal characters seeing themselves in the mirror-like reflectiveness of a puddle of water. These images brim with profound gravitas, even for a movie whose fundamental concept is communicating in purely cinematic terms. The journey that separates the two pensive scenes is the sea between individualism and community.
"Flow," Latvia's entry for Best International Feature Film at the Oscars, shimmers with the essence of life and the spirit of selfless cooperation. Its narrative clarity makes its fable seem timeless, while innovating and expanding the visual immersion of its medium. Starring an expressive black cat, who presumably had an adoring human owner, as its protagonist, "Flow" introduces us to a land devoid of people. Evidence that they once inhabited this forest area exists, but we are likely observing a post-humanity timeline as the Earth heals itself from our transgressions.
As water rises, flooding everything in its path, the cat finds itself standing on an island of its own, quite literally. A giant statue of a cat—a monument to feline companions—is almost completely submerged, forcing the hero to survive by stepping away from its comfortable isolation. Manmade structures disappearing underwater, swallowed by the ocean, convey an invitation to drowning one's own ego, making room for a collective mindset as we face extinction. Later, the insignificance of human ambitions against nature is reinforced as a whale swims through the ruins of what once were the streets of a city.
The cat finds safety on a sailboat on which a lethargic capybara drifts through the flooded landscape. Soon, a perpetually jolly Labrador dog, a majestic secretary bird, and an unruly lemur join them. In the distance, a range of slim but high mountain peaks seems to guide the furry and feathered adventurers who must rely on each other. Their relationships are tested and reinforced through a subtle rubbing of noses, the generous gesture of sharing food, or, in a higher-stakes instance, the decision to stand up to a flock, risking violence and vanishing to protect an innocent new friend. The bird takes on a leadership position, asserting dominance communicated in its upright posture that stands high above the others. Each species is animated in ways that demonstrate its personality. But the cat's curiosity about its fellow travelers and its surroundings, with its large observant eyes,nourishes their bond.
The enveloping, fluid movement of the camera through the luminous environments creates the illusion that the events are occurring spontaneously in front of us despite being impeccably orchestrated to the most minute detail. Zilbalodis' animation style replicates life's unpredictability with a dazzling naturalness, following the creatures in long takes that go from water to the safety of their boat without ever leaving their side. The artists' detailed confection of the lush greenery, the architecture, and the texture of the water has a staggering effect, somewhere between painterly and lifelike. But don't mistake this for the soulless hyperrealism of Disney's "live-action" (but really hybrid and sometimes fully animated) adaptations of their hand-drawn masterpieces (2019's "The Lion King" comes to mind as the most obscene example). The characters in "Flow" have a graphic, stylized quality to their design, particularly noticeable in how light interacts with the shade of color on their bodies.
Zilbalodis' attention to the animals' behaviors as they affect each other makes for a vibrant microcosm, a miniature society aboard their vessel where one entity's actions have repercussions for the entire crew—such as allowing newcomers into their ecosystem. Conflict arises from time to time, as in any group, but without fully anthropomorphizing them, Zilbalodis conceives this disparate gang of friends in order to embody the best of us. Still, the director goes beyond merely representing their instinct to remain alive and interiority and inherent spirituality in the form of a dream where the cat sees a herd of deer running away from the surging water and in how it depicts a death—the latter is one of the most singularly gorgeous sequences of any movie this year. Sporadically used to supplement the rich soundscape that's so integral to engaging with this vivid realm, the score, co-composed by Zilbalodis and composer Rihards Zaļupe, resonates with a sublime minimalism while heightening tension and tranquility.
Making faces in a hand mirror found among the objects left behind by the boat's former owners, the lemur seems to assert a sort of personhood, then selflessly shares that discovery with others. It's as if these animals reflect the noble qualities within us; in their reflection, we have an opportunity to reflect as well. In all their unspoken wisdom, they are trying to tell us we can only save ourselves if we see ourselves as part of a whole, and not as distinct factions warring over trivialities. As we confront our imminent climate crisis and the many other cataclysms that plague our reality, we'll only have each other to make it through. "Flow" boasts a hopeful outlook; it suggests these storms won't be permanent and that the deer will freely run through the forest again. Life, in all its splendor and blameless tragedy, will, indeed, flow.
