Watching Anima gave me goosebumps. It’s art. Disturbingly beautiful art.
Anima is a Netflix Original short film, currently streaming on Netflix, with a runtime of just under 15 minutes.
I’ve been a longtime fan of Thom Yorke, his music has always felt like it understands emotional confusion better than words ever could.
So seeing him collaborate with Paul Thomas Anderson felt special right away, and honestly, it arrived at the perfect time in my life.
I was dealing with heartbreak, uncertainty, that floating feeling of confusion where nothing quite makes sense and you’re not sure what direction you’re moving in.
Anima mirrored that state so precisely it almost felt invasive. In a good way.
Watching it actually inspired me to begin my own experimental short film about trauma, something I wouldn’t have attempted otherwise.
Anima has no dialogue or a linear story, but it doesn’t need it. Everything is communicated through movement and the music.
The choreography is flawless, not flashy, not performative, just deeply intentional.
Every movement feels like the body is responding to forces it can’t escape. Watching it felt tense and beautiful at the same time.
What really stayed with me was how emotional it felt without trying to explain itself. There’s no clear narrative telling you what to think or feel.
You’re just dropped into this space of motion and sound and asked to sit with it. And I did. Completely.
The way the bodies move together, then break apart, the way rhythm pulls people forward and then traps them, it felt like grief, like longing, like being stuck between holding on and letting go. I really felt it.
It’s abstract, obscure and definitely not for everyone. Some people will probably pass and find it strange, and that’s okay.
But for me, it landed exactly where it needed to. It felt honest. Vulnerable. Heavy. Beautiful in a way that’s a little unsettling.
Anima isn’t something you watch casually.
It’s something you experience.
Honestly, Vanessa 