Why Flow is a visual masterpiece that rivals even Studio Ghibli's

How does a silent cat drifting through a flooded, post-human world manage to stir the same ache, the same awe, as Chihiro boarding a spirit train or Ashitaka galloping through an ancient forest? How can a one-man animation studio from Latvia create something that feels as emotionally loaded, as visually poetic, and as spiritually resonant as the legacy of Studio Ghibli?

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Disclaimer:

The views and interpretations expressed in this article are solely those of the author. This analysis is a critical reflection on the artistic and emotional impact of Flow, and its comparison with the legacy of Studio Ghibli is meant to celebrate, not undermine, that legacy. While Flow draws influence from Ghibli’s thematic elements, it is an original work that stands on its own as a profound and innovative piece of animation. All opinions shared are based on the author's personal interpretation and analysis of the film, and readers are encouraged to form their own conclusions.

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The answer is simple and yet profound: Flow isn’t trying to copy Ghibli. It’s trying to feel something. And it makes you feel it too—deeply, wordlessly, irrevocably.

Created almost entirely by Gints Zilbalodis, a visionary filmmaker who not only directed but also animated, edited, and composed the score, Flow is a cinematic miracle. A minimalist epic. A fable born from water, silence, and longing. And while the comparisons to Studio Ghibli are inevitable, they’re not reductive. They’re a measure of the emotional, philosophical, and artistic weight this film carries.

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The language of stillness: How Flow speaks without words

Where most modern animation leans into fast pacing, witty banter, and non-stop exposition, Flow dares to do the opposite. It slows everything down. It removes language entirely. And in that quiet, it finds something louder than words.

From the opening shot—an expanse of water swallowing a familiar world—we’re invited to stop listening and start feeling. The black cat, our silent protagonist, doesn’t have a name. It doesn’t speak, emote, or offer internal monologues. Yet somehow, we understand its loneliness. It is resilience. It is cautious hope.

This is where Zilbalodis’ genius shows: every flick of the cat’s tail, every pause before a jump, and every wary glance toward another animal are meticulously animated to communicate volumes. It’s storytelling at its most distilled. The way My Neighbor Totoro lets wind ripple through trees to express presence, or the way The Wind Rises uses planes to echo emotional arcs—Flow does all that with just movement and music.

In a world obsessed with noise, Flow is a radical act of restraint.

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A world submerged, a memory surfacing

The landscape of Flow is post-apocalyptic—but it never feels grim. Instead, it feels strangely familiar, like a dream you’ve forgotten but never stopped carrying. Entire cities are underwater. Trees grow out of rooftops. Broken bridges hover like skeletons of connection. But it’s not just ruin—it’s rebirth.

This world pulses with a quiet kind of magic. Not the fantasy magic of spells or dragons, but the elemental wonder that defines Studio Ghibli’s work: the idea that nature remembers, even when humans don’t. That’s what links Flow so deeply to Ghibli’s DNA. Think of Princess Mononoke, where nature fights back against industry. Think of The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, where emotion reshapes the very art style. Think of The Red Turtle, a wordless meditation on life, love, and loss.

Flow belongs in that family—not because it imitates, but because it understands. It captures the fragile tension between solitude and connection, decay and beauty, destruction and possibility.

And then there are the animals.

They aren’t just there to populate the screen. They represent something deeper—versions of the self, fragments of memory, pieces of trust rebuilt one pawprint at a time. Watching the cat form an uneasy alliance with a capybara, a dog, a bird, and more, we’re witnessing something more than survival. We’re watching grief soften into empathy.

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A quiet revolution in animation

The technical feat of Flow cannot be overstated. This is a film made in Blender—open-source software—and animated entirely by one person. It doesn’t have the polish of a Pixar film or the textured chaos of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, but that’s exactly the point. Its imperfection is its humanity.

Every frame looks like a digital watercolor, as if the world were painted in memory and washed in time. The colors are soft, often muted—blues, grays, and greens—with bursts of sunlight that feel like hope. Shadows stretch, waters shimmer, and ruins breathe. You don’t just watch Flow. You drift inside it.

This is where the Ghibli comparison becomes not just valid, but essential. Studio Ghibli was never about sharp lines or technical perfection. It was about atmosphere. Intuition. The emotional weight of a single image. A train disappearing into fog. A soot sprite scuttling away. A broom lifting off the ground. Flow carries that same energy. It understands that the most powerful moments in animation aren’t loud—they’re tender.

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Respecting the giants: Flow as homage, not challenge

Let’s be absolutely clear: saying Flow rivals Studio Ghibli is not a way to undermine what Ghibli has achieved. It’s a celebration of that legacy. A torch being carried forward by someone who gets it.

Because Ghibli didn’t just animate worlds—it redefined who gets to exist in them. Long before Hollywood took its first baby steps toward inclusivity, Ghibli gave us girls with agency. Kiki, a teenage witch who supports herself with her own business, navigates burnout, depression, and independence with zero help from a love interest. In Nausicaä, we have a warrior princess who’s not a token girlboss but a deeply compassionate environmentalist trying to prevent genocide. In Spirited Away, Chihiro faces a surreal capitalist nightmare and finds her strength by being kind.

These were women written with nuance, before the term “strong female lead” even existed. They were allowed to be vulnerable. To fail. To grow. And in that, they became more real than most live-action characters ever get.

That’s the standard Ghibli set. Flow doesn’t try to replicate it—but it honors it. It continues that lineage by crafting a protagonist who doesn’t need to speak to be understood. By creating a narrative where empathy is action. By trusting the audience to feel, not be told.

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The next wave has arrived

We are living in a moment where animation is either blockbuster IP or a festival footnote. Flow slices through that binary like a whisper through floodwater. It’s a reminder that animation can still be personal, radical, emotionally raw, and universally resonant.

Gints Zilbalodis didn’t need a studio, a franchise, or a brand. He needed a vision. And he built Flow from that vision, one frame at a time. The result is a film that doesn’t just rival Studio Ghibli—it reminds us why Studio Ghibli mattered in the first place. Why we fell in love with storytelling that feels, that lingers, that transforms.

Flow is not the future of animation.

It’s the proof that the future is already here.