The European Film Award, the American Golden Globe, two Academy Award nominations– no Baltic filmmaker has ever reached such heights. And to top it all off, an Oscar win! They are the first: the little grey cat from Latvia, director Gints Zilbalodis, and the animated film Flow. Read the story from the Baltic Film Magazine, which just came out in January.
Director Gints Zilbalodis can be described as a visually gifted animation prodigy, seamlessly incorporating video game and cinematic techniques into the animation medium. He is something of a Renaissance man, involved in nearly every aspect of his filmmaking process, and adept at addressing the emotional depth of his work, while retaining an interest in the allegorical characters he creates. His vision resonates profoundly with audiences.
As the director, cinematographer, editor, producer, and co-author of the script and music, Gints is reluctant to reveal too much about the ideological and philosophical layers of the film. Together with his creative team from Latvia, France, and Belgium, he spent years carefully crafting Flow, a story set in a post-apocalyptic world devoid of humans but inhabited by a small group of animals, named: Cat, Capybara, Lemur, Labrador, and Secretarybird. The film has surprised many with its visual storytelling, hidden layers of prophetic meaning, and its deliberate avoidance of overused contemporary themes and clichés. Gints insists that viewers must "unlock" the film on their own terms, and the world seems to have embraced this challenge wholeheartedly.
The appeal of Flow lies in its visual language, which resonates with diverse audiences.
I think that since Cannes and other festivals, people have recognised the potential of this film – it’s something made for the big screen. Ensuring films are seen in cinemas is both a huge job and a major success. I believe Flow doesn’t work as well on smaller screens; it’s an experience that demands the viewer’s full attention. The sound, the expansive imagery, and the audience all come together to create that experience.
How do you feel about the film’s international success? Flow is being listed for nominations and awards alongside big-budget works by renowned studios.
I’m still processing it all – I can’t quite step back and view it from an outsider’s perspective. I’m happy that the film is being recognised at various festivals, especially those where animated films are rarely featured. Often, Flow and I are the only representatives of animation in those contexts. This ties in with the main theme of the film – the longing to be accepted. Sometimes, we feel like we’re from another world, standing out with our unusualness.
In a way, television series and Hollywood films are becoming more and more alike – everything is produced so quickly that adhering to a formula becomes inevitable. But we’ve been accepted, and that’s gratifying.
We’ve stepped onto the global stage with an unconventional, risky film. The festivals and awards are crucial not just for Flow but also for the prospect of creating similar films in the future. In Latvia, Flow is considered a big-budget project, but in France, it’s seen as a small, independent animation. Even within this structure, there’s room for creative manoeuvre.
For me, it’s a lot of pressure because I bear full responsibility. I can’t simply hand over a script and insist it must be done in a particular way. The process is fluid, decisions need to be made constantly, and there’s always an element of unpredictability. It’s exhausting, but animation has to feel organic – it should give the impression of capturing a live event, rather than being something overly rigid or contrived.
Previously, you worked entirely on your own.
Yes, I used to handle every aspect of my films by myself. If I had an idea, I executed it alone. Now, I’ve had to learn how to communicate my ideas to others. This is the first project where I’ve truly stepped into the role of a director – directing is about guiding and instructing others.
That said, I don’t think things have changed dramatically. Every new project comes with the same challenges; you always begin from square one. It doesn’t necessarily get easier – it’s always difficult to start.
So, Flow is a chapter in your life where, like the main character – Cat – you learn to connect with others. The selection of animals and birds is intriguing from the perspective of collective psychology. How does it resonate with you?
I think I identified with all the characters, but most directly with the Cat. I wanted the characters to have their flaws, and for us to understand them and their motivations. At the heart of it all is the main theme of the story: the desire to be accepted and to fit in. At the same time, there’s another layer – learning to embrace independence. These ideas can’t be distilled into a single sentence or message. For me, the theme serves as a backbone, but it’s far from the entirety of the story.
I started with the cat. Initially, the idea was to craft a story about a cat afraid of water – something universally understood, requiring no explanation. Later, I introduced another character, Dog, inspired by two dogs I’ve had myself. This opened up the theme further: a cat, fiercely independent at first, gradually learns to trust others and cooperate. That’s why I included a dog – a character who usually follows others but, over time, learns to make his own decisions. It was essential that the film didn’t deliver a single didactic message, like “independence is bad, and cooperation is good.” I wanted to explore the other side, too – how making your own decisions is valuable, and how the truth might lie somewhere between these two extremes.
You seem to have been searching for balance, both visually and narratively.
Exactly. The other characters stemmed from this idea of duality. There’s Lemur, obsessed with shiny things, and over time, we understand why his desire for acceptance manifests in this way. Then there’s Bird who tries to fit in with a flock of birds. These characters weren’t chosen at random – they are both psychologically and visually distinct. Silhouettes were a key consideration in the animation process.
Each character’s story complements the ´at’s journey – they all have to work together. It was incredibly challenging to balance this, especially without dialogue. We had to find ways to maintain the audience’s attention and avoid repetition, as the film unfolds mostly in a single setting. The lack of dialogue and a limited environment imposed constraints, but those challenges shaped the creative process.
To me, dialogues don’t feel necessary. The film communicates so much through interactions and non-verbal language. Why did you decide to omit human language entirely?
From the start, I wanted the animals to behave as animals. While there are moments where we’ve allowed ourselves some artistic flexibility, we’ve consistently tried to ground their behaviour in reality. Animals are fascinating and often humorous just as they are – there’s no need for exaggeration.
It was important to create something recognisable, where viewers could see their own pets or even their own behaviour reflected in the characters. Interestingly, like many others, I find that moments involving animals in films – especially when they’re in danger – move us the most.
...even when we know it’s fiction, there’s an instinctive saviour response. And it’s true – children and animals inevitably steal the spotlight.
Perhaps that’s why Flow resonates universally. Animals share commonalities that transcend culture, making their stories accessible to everyone.
You’ve chosen to omit people from the world of Flow. They’re simply not there. We are not there.
Most likely, people exist somewhere, but they’ve managed to escape, leaving the animals behind, neglected. That would be my interpretation. It’s more of an emotional concept with a logical framework around it. Even the statues seen at the beginning of the film serve as a time marker – they show the passage of time. It felt visually and conceptually expansive to include both the cat statues and the cat that observes them sinking into the water.
Initially, the cat statue wasn’t part of the plan. However, after creating the animatic – a visual preview of the film – I decided to replace the human statue with a cat statue. The change happened naturally. It became a strong emotional image, and I later began crafting a logical thread for it. I even imagined the sculptor who might have created those statues.
Each viewer can interpret the film’s characters in their own way, but I can’t help seeing a critique of humanity – of our choice to turn away from nature, refusing to take responsibility, and disappearing from the frame altogether.
A similar idea underpins the cat’s journey. Cat avoids problems rather than confronting them. It's similar with people in the film – they have run away from the animals, maybe neglected them. Cat climbs higher and higher, hoping everything will resolve itself. But eventually, you have to climb down and face those challenges. It’s a parallel – what the animals do mirrors what people do, and vice versa.
I appreciate that you don’t explain everything about the characters or the flood. The film retains its mystery – but I imagine protecting that sense of mystery is a challenge?
That’s very important to me. I strive to eliminate anything superfluous, leaving only what truly matters. I’m not interested in detailing the history of this fictional world because that would detract from the focus on the characters and their relationships, which are far more significant.
You’ve been travelling the world with Flow. What resonates with international audiences? What messages do viewers in other countries take away from it?
Viewers often ask specific questions – what happened to the people or certain characters, what their fates might be. These are the unresolved aspects of the story. I usually avoid giving definitive answers, preferring to share my train of thought instead. It’s much more engaging that way. It’s like a joke – if you have to explain it, it falls flat. I don’t believe art should require instructions to be understood. It should speak for itself. Explanations can spark new ideas, but they should also generate fresh questions, leaving the audience to seek answers themselves.
So, do you think a director shouldn’t explain their films?
Absolutely. It doesn’t matter to me if viewers find specific answers. What’s important is that they gain new experiences and emotions, discovering how cinema can still surprise them. The film shouldn’t spoon-feed everything. Instead, it should offer threads for viewers to unravel and reflect on themselves.
If I were to explain the film, it would feel like a failure. I’ve spent years creating a carefully crafted work – everything in it is intentional. Explaining it would mean my plan hasn’t worked. I approach filmmaking instinctively, and I don’t analyse other people’s films in a way that demands explanations for why they move me.
In today’s internet culture, where everything is expected to be logically justified, I’d advise people to simply immerse themselves in the experience of art. It’s closer to the experience of music than to literature. It’s vital to challenge ourselves, to seek out and embrace the unknown.
The article is written by Dārta Ceriņa for the Baltic Film Magazine.
There is plenty more where that came from—read other articles from the latest edition HERE.