Three pairs of tiny feet fidgeted under a blanket, eyes were fixed beadily on the TV, and awestruck jaws closed only around the occasional handful of stove-popped popcorn. It was only five minutes into thе film picked for my family’s traditional Friday movie night and my kids were already hooked. Though it took me a while to be drawn in, the kids caught on right away. The film does not have words. The animation is not fully rendered.

Wordless and unconventionally animated, from the opening scene it’s obvious Gints Zilbalodis’s Flow is not a typical film. This year’s Oscar winner for best animated feature follows the survival of a gray cat in a posthuman world and stands out in a genre that tends to churn out fast-paced sequels and flashy remakes. It isn’t moralizing or manufactured drama through predictable story beats but a work of art my family could wrestle with as well as enjoy.

The film opens as the main character, a wide-eyed dark gray cat, peers at its reflection in a pool of water. The cat is drawn from its reverie by a pack of noisy dogs and chased through a lush green forest before seeking shelter in an abandoned cabin. But its safety is only temporary because the world is flooding. In the cat’s world cities, ships, statues remain as ominous artifacts of a time that has passed. Stasis means death, and survival can only come by pushing beyond comfortable limits – swimming, for one, if you’re a cat.

But the cat doesn’t have to manage alone for long. It soon encounters other displaced creatures – a carefree Labrador, a majestic secretary bird, a languid capybara, and an erratic lemur. They share resources, grow to understand each other’s needs and accept their quirks – like the lemur’s possessiveness about its collection of manmade objects and the dog’s insatiable desire for play. There is generous sharing of food and risk. When rising waters make land survival impossible, a passing sailboat becomes the animals’ haven, a microcosm floating through the ruins of cities, through moments of interminable quiet, when it seems the waters will never recede and buoying them during moments of terror, as when a thunderstorm nearly capsizes the little ship.

The characters are anthropomorphized without sacrificing authenticity; their flaws and strengths reflect very human qualities. Their experiences are familiar – the fear that must be overcome, the risk and necessity of companionship. Flow revels in the natural beauty of the earth while illuminating stark realities of survival. It shows very human flaws – greed, selfishness, competition, fear, naivety – and human virtues – sacrifice and empathy.

It took some time to adjust to watching this film. Dialogue-free and uniquely animated in 3D but without every bit fully rendered, it was almost uncomfortable at first. It’s as if the filmmakers are clueing us in to how they want the film to be received – sit with absence, and wonder what isn’t being handed to you. We began to notice the sound: the wind rustling through the long grass, the droplets of water, the clashing of a thunderstorm. The silence, along with the film’s measured, thoughtful pace, created space for contemplation and our own family dialogue about what we were watching.

And we needed that, because Flow doesn’t answer questions, it asks them. My kids are more accustomed to movies with obvious good guys and bad guys, neat and victorious conclusions, or clear moral instruction. But Flow is a film about nature and nature isn’t that binary.

“They’re bad guys,” my three-year-old said, pointing at the pack of dogs that took the fish the cat had labored to catch for its friends. It was a moment of anguish for the characters who had already suffered a series of defeats. “They’re mean, but they’re really hungry too,” explained my seven-year-old. The film’s “good guys” weren’t so clear-cut either. The lemur was self-absorbed and selfish, the secretary bird could be arrogant, and the Labrador impetuous, and the flaws of one affected the whole group. “All he cares about is his stuff!” said one child about the greedy lemur.

The characters weren’t only driven by their flaws. There were moments of selfless sacrifice, as when the secretary bird defended the cat at the risk of violence from its own flock, or when the whole group of travelers risked their own safety to save the capybara from plunging to its death. “Look! His heart is changing!” exclaimed my son at the sight of the lemur sharing its treasures with other lemurs.

Other reactions struck at deeper, more complex realities – death, the problem of evil, the finitude of manmade creations. “What do you think happened to all the people?” “Why is the earth flooding?” “Do you think the whale will survive?” In those moments arises that great adult temptation: the urge to proselytize. The risk of exposing your children to art that fosters critical thinking is the possibility of letting them loose in the garden. It’s loosening your control to let their little minds explore, untethered by immediate answers. And it’s scary. But it’s also letting God do his work.

At the film’s climax the sailboat’s tiller breaks, and the cat falls from its perch on the mast and is knocked unconscious. The cat wakes to see the aging secretary bird fly to a nearby island with its injured wing. The cat follows to see the secretary bird lifted, flying into a bright light in the sky.

“Where is he going?” wondered my youngest. I bit my tongue and let him wonder. A moment passed. “He’s going to heaven, Joey,” responded my five-year-old as my oldest shielded her eyes. “He’s being lifted up to heaven.”