The year 2024 was replete with exceptional films that restored faith in the role of cinema in analysing and helping audiences process the chaos and destruction unfolding around them. These films also demonstrated cinema's ability to innovate and set the bar even higher for artistic expression. Al Majalla selects ten films which the writer believes to be among the most powerful.
The Girl with the Needle by Magnus von Horn
This Danish film compels us to acknowledge the undying allure of black-and-white cinema. Directed by Magnus von Horn, it takes us back to German Expressionist films, which reflected the horrors of war—or rather, the unimaginable atrocities humans can commit during wartime.
The Girl with the Needle delivers undisputed horror. The director himself explains that this was the genre he initially envisioned for the film, which he co-wrote with Line Langebek Knudsen. They drew inspiration from the true story of a wartime infant murderer named Dagmar—her real name is also used in the film—and she is portrayed with a captivating presence by actress Trine Dyrholm.
However, Dagmar is not the protagonist of the film. That role belongs to Caroline (played by Vic Carmen Sonne), a factory worker in Copenhagen in 1919. Struggling in dire poverty and left alone while her husband is away at the front, Caroline faces relentless hardships. She seeks financial assistance from local authorities and is repeatedly evicted from her home. Desperate for a way out, even if it involves falsely declaring her husband dead, her efforts ultimately lead her to the factory manager, Jørgen, who quickly becomes infatuated with her.
Despite his initial interest, Jørn ultimately abandons her at the insistence of his aristocratic mother, who deems Caroline unsuitable for their family due to her impoverished background. Pregnant and now ostracised, Caroline’s circumstances worsen. With no income from the factory—merely a pittance—no husband (whom she had rejected after his return from the war, disfigured), and no shelter, Caroline is forced back onto the streets.
The story takes a pivotal turn with the arrival of Dagmar. The film, steeped in monochromatic tones that cast intricate shadows over its characters, begins to delve into the intense and multifaceted relationship between Caroline and Dagmar. Dagmar, who owns the house where Caroline seeks refuge, also operates a shop—an apparent facade for her true work: arranging adoptions for abandoned children.
It seems that all the men in the film have either gone to war and not truly returned—despite the physical return of Caroline’s husband, Peter (played by Besir Zeciri)—or have been left mentally fragmented and detached from reality. Regardless of the circumstances, the burden of war’s horrors falls squarely on the shoulders of the women, forcing them to perpetuate its traumas amongst themselves. Caroline’s tragedy, for instance, started with the baroness, who didn’t even offer a solution for her pregnancy.
The film challenges initial judgments and perceptions. Peter, for instance, returns from war with no viable work prospects other than a circus, where he is displayed as a freak under the label "the face of war," his disfigured visage serving as a grotesque reminder of conflict. Yet, despite his grim circumstances, Peter displays tender affection toward the newborn. In stark contrast, Dagmar, despite her outward beauty, bourgeois upbringing, and presumed maternal instincts, shows a surprising lack of tenderness or empathy.
The narrative also highlights sharp class divisions and the dehumanisation of women, particularly during wartime. It reflects on an era before abortion was legalised.
From a cinematic perspective, Frederikke Hoffmeier’s haunting score rarely recedes, maintaining an unrelenting sense of dystopian dread tied to the wartime setting. Michal Dymek’s cinematography and Agnieszka Glinska’s editing masterfully craft unforgettable scenes and iconic frames, with the monochromatic black-and-white aesthetic adding depth and emotional resonance. This visual style, deliberately chosen by the director, immerses viewers in the historical period, severing any connection to the present and enhancing the film’s impact.
At the heart of this masterful cinematic narrative is the relationship between Caroline and Dagmar—a bond steeped in complexities and silences that compel viewers to discern more than is explicitly shown. War, depicted in the film’s haunting opening shot of overlapping human faces, serves as a unifying force of shared suffering and injustice. This sentiment is encapsulated in Dagmar’s poignant observation: “The world is a cruel place, but we must convince ourselves otherwise.”
The film has earned a place in the Oscars race, competing for Best International Feature.
The Substance by Coralie Fargeat
Although this film initially gained its reputation as an art film or a festival favourite—winning the Best Screenplay award at the previous Cannes Film Festival—it quickly captured the public’s attention, becoming a widely discussed and celebrated cinematic work. Without a doubt, it stands as one of the most significant productions of the year. The film belongs to a popular genre, horror (specifically body horror), and also dabbles in science fiction. However, at its core, it is primarily a drama.
French writer and director Coralie Fargeat revealed in an interview that the inspiration for her film came from Oscar Wilde’s renowned story The Picture of Dorian Gray, particularly its exploration of how the portrait steals the essence of its subject. She also drew deeply from her own life experiences and the broader experiences of women, where the societal emphasis on beauty and youth often drowns out all other voices. Vargier reflects on the desperate attempts to freeze time, a profound theme in the film's narrative.
In her renowned book Sorcières (Witches), French author Mona Chollet links the grey hair of older women to the stereotype of the wicked witch, a harbinger of doom, which flourished during and after the Middle Ages in Europe and beyond. This historical trope birthed societal fears of ageing among women and the cultural tendency to glorify youth while dreading old age.
In The Substance, Coralie delves into the transformation of Elizabeth Sparkle (played by Demi Moore), a character who defies the visible markers of ageing—no grey hair, no physical decline. Despite her apparent agelessness, Elizabeth becomes the victim of a scheme orchestrated by her unscrupulous producer, who aims to replace her in her televised fitness segments. These segments are less about health and more about selling an illusion: a portrayal of physical beauty, fitness, and strength that positions life as an enticing yet unattainable dream for the audience.
Read more: 'The Substance' lays bare the dangers of obsession with youth and beauty
Elizabeth refuses to accept being replaced and makes the radical decision to stop time itself. Her defiance leads her deeper into the grip of the patriarchal capitalist system—a submission intertwined with her growing isolation and obsession with her omnipresent image. This fixation becomes a manifestation of her external narcissism as she strives to preserve the illusion of perfection.
Using the titular "substance"—an unsettling echo of the early 2000s debates around cloning—Elizabeth succeeds in crafting a better, more beautiful version of herself, as promised by the system's ideals. She resumes her fitness segments by adopting the new identity of "Sue" (portrayed by Margaret Qualley).
The horror in The Substance emerges from Elizabeth’s profound internal division—a sharp psychological split that evolves into a form of schizophrenia. This fracture reflects the coldness imposed by technological advancements, severing individuals from their emotions and disrupting authentic connections with others. Sue, the embodiment of Elizabeth's "better" self, is grotesquely born from Elizabeth in a scene of excruciating labour pains. What might have been a maternal bond between these two female bodies turns instead into its antithesis.
The split intensifies over time, culminating in a bitter struggle—a fierce battle between the two halves of the same psyche that spirals into self-loathing. Sue, the ravenous youth, inevitably triumphs over the fragility of ageing, which cannot turn back time.
Yet, the film’s critique transcends gender. After all, didn’t we witness men circling Sue during her workouts, their perfectly sculpted bodies evoking the ideals of ancient Roman and Greek statues? Didn’t the film captivate and terrify audiences of both genders, delivering a chilling warning about the perilous consequences of this unholy worship of the body?
Visually, The Substance crafts a chilling dystopian world through its endless tubular corridors, carelessly discarded naked bodies and a haunting score perpetuating a pervasive sense of soullessness. The film reaches the height of cinematic irony in its conclusion, where Demi Moore—the bold and beautiful actress who embraced this challenging role—undergoes a shocking transformation into a grotesque, terrifying, yet pitiable elephant.
Despite its surreal climax, the film remains a poignant cautionary tale against excessive self-absorption and an uncritical faith in the capitalist system.
Basma by Fatima AlBanawi
Written, directed, and starring Fatima AlBanawi in her directorial debut, Basma is a co-production between Saudi Arabia (Alf Wade Company) and Egypt (Film Clinic). The Saudi star not only takes on the lead role of Basma but also contributes to the film's production. This dual involvement, coupled with the film's intimate narrative and cinematic nuances, reinforces the sense that the story is deeply connected to AlBanawi’s own life and personal experiences.
The film, available on Netflix, leans towards being a family drama, delving into the complexities of familial relationships and their profound effects on individuals. It centres on Basma, a young woman who returns to her home city of Jeddah for a short vacation from the United States after two years of separation and virtual communication, a consequence of the isolation brought about by the COVID-19 pandemic.
Despite the warmth Basma feels from reuniting with her family and her initial joy at seeing them, she quickly develops a skin allergy, which she attributes to the stress caused by familial tensions. In a candid moment, she confides to her nanny, "Some people are allergic to peanuts, and I am allergic to the family."
Basma’s return uncovers unsettling realities, starting with the revelation that her father has separated from her mother and now lives alone in a house with stringent disinfection protocols to guard against germs. Her father, a former doctor (played by Yasir Alsasi), appears to suffer from obsessive-compulsive tendencies, though the film never explicitly diagnoses his condition. Instead, it occasionally offers glimpses of life from his perspective, exposing a worldview steeped in disdain for both life and people.
For a film to tackle such a sensitive subject as the mental illness of a parent and its ripple effect on the mental health and emotional well-being of a daughter is a remarkable act of cinematic boldness, particularly within the context of Arab societies. The nuanced portrayal of the relationship between the daughter and her ailing father, alongside her interactions with her brother and other relatives, is handled with a warmth and subtlety that avoids descending into melodrama—a testament to the film’s quality and the skill of its director in her debut effort.
Watching Basma evokes a sense of tenderness and sadness rather than outright pain. The spontaneous and authentic performances of the cast, from minor roles to leading ones, contribute to the film’s dreamy and heartfelt tone. This impression is undoubtedly the result of the director’s conscious and thoughtful management.
The mood of Basma is further elevated by the distinctive music of Suad Bushnaq, whose work once again shines, and by the overall soundtrack, enriched with thoughtfully selected songs. Complementing the auditory experience is the careful choice of colours, décor, and filming locations, all of which contribute to the film’s unique atmosphere.
Admittedly, as viewers, we may occasionally feel a bit lost when following the dialogues or the evolution of relationships within the story. Certain details may confuse us or leave us wishing for more background, such as the history of some family members. However, the emotional resonance that Fatima AlBanawi achieves in her directorial debut and the film’s spiritual strength more than compensate for these narrative ambiguities.
Ultimately, Basma succeeds in offering a heartfelt message, capable of drawing a genuine smile from those burdened by family struggles who may feel as though their problems are insurmountable. As Amal Alharbi, a guest star in the film, poignantly observes: “There are things that can be fixed and other things that cannot be fixed.”
The Memoirs of M. A. Draz by Maggie Morgan
This is another family-focused film, but this time in the form of a documentary directed by Maggie Morgan. It stands out as one of the most notable Egyptian productions showcased in Cairo this year, capturing significant audience attention despite its documentary nature—a genre typically less appealing to Egyptian viewers accustomed to commercial cinema—and its exploration of family dynamics.
The film delves into the extended family of Sheikh Mohammad Abdallah Daraz, a prominent Islamic thinker and influential figure of Enlightenment. It offers a glimpse into the lives of his grandchildren, with some, like Noha El-Kholi—an actress who plays a central role in the narrative—remaining in Egypt, while others, particularly his granddaughters, live abroad.
In this sense, the film becomes more than a mere documentation of family history. It is also an effort to introduce the younger generation to their illustrious ancestor and forge a connection to their shared past.
On the other hand, The Memoirs of M. A. Draz asserts itself as a timely and significant work, particularly in the current historical and social context. The film sheds light on a lesser-known model of an Al-Azhar sheikh who defies the conventional, often stereotyped image of religious leaders.
In his youth, Sheikh Mohammad Abdallah Daraz travelled to France on a mission to pursue postgraduate studies at Sorbonne University. Unlike many narratives surrounding such figures, Sheikh Daraz’s years abroad were not marked by attempts to excommunicate those he encountered or persuade them of his beliefs. Instead, he engaged with French culture without isolation or an air of superiority. He viewed this cultural exchange as an invaluable opportunity for intellectual renewal and a chance to reflect on religion in its broader, more humane essence.
The film unfolds as a double journey. The first is an intimate exploration of Sheikh Daraz’s personality, revealing the human and familial aspects of his life. These are brought to light through the testimonies of his surviving children and grandchildren, who share his letters, memoirs, and personal anecdotes. The second journey delves into his intellectual legacy, offering insights through dialogues with specialists. These discussions highlight, for instance, his groundbreaking theory on the ethical system of the Quran and his direct influence on significant intellectual movements, including Islamic feminism.
On a cinematic level, the film's second half possesses a greater expressive and aesthetic depth than the first half, which serves as a prelude to the storyline and a clever invitation to the general audience, ensuring they do not feel alienated by a stylistically superior approach. This hallmark of Maggie Morgan's filmmaking is also evident in her acclaimed documentary From Meir to Meir.
Beyond its intimate familial focus, The Memoirs of M. A. Draz evokes a nostalgic, sentimental tone at various moments, particularly when Noha El-Kholi addresses her grandfather, whom she never met, with heartfelt emotion through the medium of the film. Ultimately, the film feels like a summoning of the late Sheikh’s spirit, delivering his messages to us in our current era, marked by evident intellectual distortions.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig by Mohammad Rasoulof
It is undoubtedly one of the standout films of the year. The Seed of the Sacred Fig was secretly filmed in Tehran by its Iranian director and writer, Mohammad Rasoulof. Toward the end of the filming, he was forced to flee the country on foot to evade Iranian authorities. The film, produced by Rasoulof in collaboration with production companies from Germany and France, gained significant attention at the Cannes Film Festival, where it competed for the Palme d’Or and received a special award.
The film chronicles the transformation of its protagonist, Iman (played by Missagh Zareh), a loyal judiciary official who faces a pivotal moment in his relationship with the regime. As he receives a promotion, he is drawn deeper into the regime’s oppressive mentality and tyranny. This advancement coincides with widespread demonstrations by the Iranian people against the repressive religious authority, demanding rights and freedoms, particularly for women.
Iman finds himself navigating a precarious balance, maintaining his outward composure while endorsing, for instance, the issuance of death sentences against children deemed enemies of the regime. He firmly believes in the regime's infallibility, considering it divinely inspired. However, the film avoids portraying Iman as purely villainous from the outset. Instead, it introduces him as a loving and gentle father to his two daughters, Radwan and Sanaa, and a devoted husband to his wife, Najma.
Rasoulof weaves his narrative through the lens of the famous feminist slogan: "The personal is political." The demonstrations, where women protest against the restriction of freedom in the name of religion, highlight sensitive social conditions—some of which are reflected in the life of Iman's family, as we will explore. His two daughters yearn for simple freedoms, such as changing their hair colour or listening to music—activities tightly controlled by the regime and deemed sinful for women. These modest desires reflect a broader longing for a future beyond the oppressive confines of their home, which is often shrouded in darkness, as vividly depicted in the film.
Meanwhile, Najma (played by Soheila Golestani), Iman’s wife and the girl’s mother, is responsible for managing the household. She delicately tries to instil in her two daughters the ideas they should embrace and the restrictions they must follow, mindful of the sensitivity surrounding their father’s new position, all while sparing him the need to address them directly. At the same time, Najma works to ease Iman’s anxieties, supporting him as he psychologically adjusts to his promotion—a step that holds the promise of elevating the family’s financial and social status.
However, Najma eventually confronts the grim reality that the regime's suspicion could turn toward her, a fear that materialises when Iman loses his gun—a pivotal moment that drives him into a state of paranoia. Consumed by fear, he subjects his wife and daughters to a relentless psychological investigation, determined to expose whether one of them is lying and concealing the weapon. This scenario vividly mirrors the brutal interrogations carried out by the regime in its prisons—a regime that trusts no one and pervades every aspect of life, much like the fig seed symbolised in the film's title.
The film, spanning three hours, often feels like two distinct narratives interwoven: one exploring Iman as a kind-hearted man and the other depicting his tyrannical side—a cog in the patriarchal system. This system inherently mistrusts women for no reason other than their gender and carries an ingrained hostility toward them.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig is a challenging viewing experience. Rasoulof, who dedicated tremendous effort to completing the film, refused to compromise on his artistic vision. The script he crafted offers a mature and nuanced portrayal of the realities in Iran, standing in solidarity with the resilience of women—and, more broadly, all individuals of conscience—against the forces of oppression.
The film’s editor, Andrew Bird, skillfully incorporates numerous cell phone videos of youth protests in Iran, weaving them seamlessly into the narrative, both within the film's events and its conclusion. These raw, real-world visuals are used in a way that feels organic rather than intrusive, complementing the film’s original storyline.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig stands as a testament to the power of cinema to address profound societal issues with both awareness and unwavering artistic integrity.
The film competes for Germany in the Best International Feature category at this year’s Oscars.
Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat by Johan Grimonprez
In this documentary, Belgian director Johan Grimonprez weaves together archival footage of world leaders clashing at the United Nations during the Cold War alongside representatives from African nations and other colonised countries striving for independence from European powers. The film tells the story of Congo, in which Belgium granted superficial autonomy, though the latter continued to sabotage the lives of the Congolese people, relentlessly pursuing independent Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba until his capture and eventual assassination.
In the early 1960s, Black liberation movements in America were igniting social revolutions, with jazz ambassadors like Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis, and Nina Simone touring the globe to project an image—later revealed to be less reflective of reality—of the United States' ability to look equally at black rights and the rights of colonised nations.
Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat demonstrates the power of jazz to narrate stories of revolution and anti-colonial resistance, transforming thousands of archival fragments into a cohesive and striking two-and-a-half-hour narrative. The film chronicles Congo's suffering and the dream of African nations to form an organisation defending their rights—the African Union. One of the film’s featured speeches includes Gamal Abdel Nasser stating, "I believe the Suez Canal inspired African nations to have confidence in themselves and demand independence."
This is not an easy film to watch. The continuous shifts between times, countries, languages, political speeches, witness interviews, and literary excerpts—accompanied by live jazz music—create a pulsating and sometimes overwhelming rhythm. Equally challenging is enduring the recounting of atrocities committed against the Congolese people: systematic rape of women, child murders, and the justification of such acts.
A Belgian soldier is quoted saying, "They told me Congolese women are even worse than the men and deserve to be raped." A Belgian politician openly describes the entire population as a herd of animals. Congo was a source of uranium during the nuclear arms race, heightening Belgium's resolve to remain, masking their presence under the guise of independence and deception.
All these factors make Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat essential viewing, reminding us that colonial rhetoric persists. Statements like these echo today in justifications for aggression against the Palestinian people, numbing global conscience.
The film competes in the "Best Documentary Feature" category at this year's Oscars.
Dahomey by Mati Diop
Dahomey is another documentary—co-produced by France, Senegal, and Benin—that explores the colonial legacy of cultural theft. The film recounts the story of the Kingdom of Dahomey, now the Republic of Benin, which was colonised by France. During this time, France plundered artefacts from Dahomey, displaying them in museums across Paris.
In the present day, Paris decides to return 26 statues that belonged to the Kingdom of Dahomey, representing its culture and beliefs, to the descendants in modern-day Benin. Director Mati Diop captures the process of transporting these pieces from a Parisian Museum back to Benin. Haitian writer Makenzy Orcel lends his voice to the 26th artefact—a statue of King Ghezo, who ruled Dahomey from 1818 to 1859. The statue reflects on its feelings of disorientation, the long isolation spent in the darkness of museums, and its relationship with other artefacts representing ancestors, all while anticipating the long-awaited return home.
One of the most compelling aspects of Dahomey, aside from this poetic depiction of the colonised psyche—echoing Frantz Fanon's ideas and voiced by Orcel—is the series of discussions Diop films with university students in Benin. They reflect on the impact of having their history stripped away and ponder how to engage with the return of only a fraction of their heritage. These artefacts, once part of daily life in Dahomey, were never meant to be excluded and confined to museums, as Western civilisations tend to treat products of other cultures.
Diop masterfully captures this fluid moment of ideas, dreams, and emotions that shape the relationship between this generation and their homeland, as well as their future. Notably, these discussions are held in French, while the artefact speaks in its African language.
Dahomey has been one of the year's most celebrated films, winning several awards, including the Golden Bear at the latest Berlin International Film Festival. It also represents Senegal in the Oscars, competing for both Best International Feature and Best Documentary Feature.
The Room Next Door by Pedro Almodóvar
Pedro Almodóvar's latest film, The Room Next Door, directed and written by the Spanish filmmaker, is adapted from a novel by Sigrid Nunez. It can be said, with confidence, that the film promises more than it delivers. The global trailer for this, Almodóvar’s first English-language film, conveys an emotional intensity that may not entirely manifest within the film itself.
The film appears to maintain a certain emotional distance from its subject—or subjects, to be precise—as if Almodóvar refrains from taking his work as seriously as expected. This approach mirrors the attitude of the film’s protagonist, Martha (played by Tilda Swinton, who received the Honorary Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival for her career achievements), who faces the rapid spread of cancer in her body and decides to end her life. However, she undertakes this decision in the most delicate way possible, enlisting the help of an old friend, Ingrid (Julianne Moore). Ingrid harbours a pathological fear of death but must accompany Martha during her final hours, offering her comforting and light-hearted presence.
Without the lightness that permeates the film, watching it could have become a burdensome experience for viewers, as it delves into complex and challenging topics such as euthanasia, desire, family relationships, love, and life as a series of small joys—Almodóvar's signature themes.
Despite the thematic lightness, the film's visual and auditory elements craft a brief meditation (running under two hours) on life through Martha’s departing gaze. She wishes to leave before her bodily functions deteriorate further, depriving her of the ability to enjoy nature. For instance, the symphonic score (composed by Alberto Iglesias) grants The Room Next Door a sense of grandeur. Tilda Swinton’s readings from the works of James Joyce, the framing, colour choices, costumes, and, naturally, the stellar performances by Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton all contribute to the film’s artistic merit.
The Room Next Door delivers an aesthetically and intellectually rewarding experience without overwhelming emotional weight.
The film won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, marking the first time a Spanish production achieved this honour. It is also competing for the Academy Award for Best Original Score.
Anora by Sean Baker
The American film Anora, directed and written by Sean Baker, won the Palme d'Or at the last Cannes Film Festival. It tells a simple story of an incomplete love affair between sex worker Anora (Mikey Madison) and Vian (Mark Edelstein), the son of a Russian oligarch visiting the United States. The theme of love’s disappointment, presented tragically, draws parallels to another film released this year—Joker: Folie à Deux.
In Anora, disillusionment feels more reflective of our era, where the notion of a poor girl marrying a prince seems antiquated. Today, self-indulgence and fleeting pleasures often replace such dreams.
Anora doesn't exclusively concern itself with this theme. The film explores youthful recklessness and the pursuit of life’s extremes—embodied by 23-year-old Anora and 21-year-old Vian. Vian acts impulsively, spurred by the privileges of his father’s wealth and his confidence that he can evade the consequences of his actions. In one memorable scene, Vian remarks to Anora, "Yes, I'm happy. I'm always happy."
This existential state sharply contrasts with Anora’s reality, where love represents a potential new beginning, albeit ephemeral. Yet, the film transcends the surface narrative, posing deeper social and existential questions. The strength of Anora lies in its immersive cinematic style, pulling viewers deep into the story and prompting strong identification with the characters, even when the ending feels inevitable. This effect is achieved through documentary-like cinematography and naturalistic performances, particularly from Mikey Madison, Karren Karagulian (as Toros), and Yuriy Borisov (as Igor).
The film’s vitality stems from the interplay between rapid cuts and lingering scenes, pulsating music, and the gritty reality of commercial sex work. The lighting—soft in intimate settings and vibrant in nightclubs—adds to the overall experience, crafting an unexpected yet compelling viewing experience.
As Anora's life takes a tragic turn, the script introduces comedic moments that elicit laughter, even bringing a touch of humanity to the antagonists. The family gang, the Axe of Truth, who shattered Anora's hopes, are portrayed as both amusing and relatable. The film’s final long take is as poignant and beautiful as the entire journey preceding it.
Flow by Gints Zilbalodis
This is not your typical animated film—although animated films are rarely ordinary. Here, the animals do not speak to one another, nor do they embark on human-like adventures that offer moral lessons. Yet, they undertake a journey—a spiritual one, perhaps—navigating the wreckage left behind by humans, forced to endure an apocalyptic flood that humanity may not have survived, and ultimately, to flow along with it. Flow is a co-production between Lithuania and France, directed by Gints Zilbalodis and co-written with Matiss Kaza.
Despite its sombre theme and blunt warning about the inevitable disasters stemming from rapid climate change, the film evokes a sense of joy. At the heart of the story is a cat—the protagonist we follow and empathise with—charming and clever, moving across the screen in a way that mirrors real cats, including their meows. The animal sounds, for the most part, are derived from actual recordings.
A flood arrives, casting our feline hero far from familiar surroundings. In this forced exile, the cat encounters a band of similarly displaced animals, including a dog, a wild boar, a ring-tailed lemur, and, later, a secretary bird. These creatures form a loose alliance, united by a shared sense of solitude and an undefined, palpable difference from the herd. While the animals do not appear to grasp the fate that has befallen them—at least not in the way humans might—science tells us that animals possess their own kind of intelligence. This intelligence propels them to fight for survival, endure the flood, and help one another when possible.
As viewers, we do not immediately understand the nature of the flood. Gradually, through witnessing the struggles of these helpless creatures and the ruins of some forgotten human civilisation, the truth unfolds. Cinematically, the film’s mood and narrative are shaped by a musical score composed by Zilbalodis in collaboration with Zit Zalop.
The absence of human dialogue reinforces the randomness of the animals' movements, with the story instead focusing on distinct aspects of their personalities to drive the plot—such as the pride of the secretary bird, the lemur’s playful nature and attachment to its toys, and, of course, the cat’s curiosity and yearning.
Flow is visually and artistically delightful and intellectually mature in its subtle philosophical and conceptual reflections. The film competes in the Best International Feature category at this year’s Oscars.
