To talk about Flow (2024), even in vague terms, feels like spoiling it — and this, despite its utter lack of conventional plot or expository dialogue. To experience its magic unadulterated, maybe stop reading this and just go see it, because it may be the single most captivating movie I’ve seen this century. What an incredibly gorgeous, suspenseful, moving film, an animated, fantastical allegory with accolades so glowing I couldn’t imagine it ever living up to the hype. But it’s even better, luring with quiet, confident visual storytelling before ramping into devastating, intense drama and penetrating insight.
Flow delivers us to what initially looks like a dystopian future wherein humanity has mysteriously vanished. Only animals remain, starting with our hero, an innocent cat, quietly living its lonely life in the abandoned home of an artist. The cat’s refuge from a harsh world is quickly under threat, however, when devastating floods overtake the countryside. As the cat’s usual haunts are swallowed by the ocean, it takes refuge in a boat, where it guardedly befriends a sleepy capybara. Later, they’re joined by a packrat lemur. And then a goofy dog, and a sedate, authoritative bird. This unlikely, wordless found family traverses the drowning world, experiencing conflict, camaraderie, and one dire threat after another as their environment grows increasingly hostile.
Flow is pure metaphorical mystique, and while there are certain resonances with Richard Adams novels like Watership Down or Plague Dogs, there’s really nothing else like it. It starts with quiet, visually striking intrigue, but as figures come onstage and the action unfolds, its message comes sharply into focus. That message is simple, but potent: the animals are us, the flood is the world, and the film is about our collective, dysfunctional response to crisis. The unspoken subtext isn’t cheery, but the critique is powerful, and it’s couched in gorgeous, picturesque visuals while positively radiating with empathy. No film, ever, has made me worry more for its characters than Flow, which by “animalizing” the targets of its criticism, softens the stridency of the critique. It helps that the animal behavior is so familiar, and that both the humorous, bickering antics and quiet camaraderie render their factious dynamic sympathetic. None of us, it says, are above reproach — the complacent, the responsible, the distractable, the greedy, the fearful — but we all have value. Flow’s figures are flawed but appealing, and better when they’re together than not. In less artful hands, the sentiment might even be cheesy, but at a time of catastrophic political failure, with short-sighted sociopathy in the ascendant, Flow hits all the harder with the knowledge that its poignant, beautiful mission will fall on so many deaf ears. This film gutted me, and it’s hard to stop thinking about. An absolute masterpiece.
