It’s not surprising that Fantasia organizers for the festival’s 2025 edition couldn’t help but highlight how Dog of God follows last year’s triumph of Flow, Gints Zilbalodis’ animated film from Latvia about a cat displaced by natural disaster, which became the first film from that country to ever be nominated for, let alone win, an Oscar. The comparison is so apt not only due to the films’ national origin, but because Dog of God is, in some ways, the complete opposite of Flow — it is provocative, vulgar, violent, grotesque, horny, and disturbing, in contrast to all the ways that Flow was delightful, gentle, and warm. (Dog of God’s cat, likewise, gets up to some activities that are the furthest thing away from Flow, and we’ll leave it at that). It’s an easy enough selling point: Latvian animation is having a moment, so let us show you its seedy underbelly.
Dog of God, directed by the brothers Lauris and Raitis Ābele, takes place in the 17th century, a time of witch trials, religious fanaticism, rampant drunkenness, and low levels of hygiene. It’s a Baltic folk horror film that adds regional specificity to legends of lycanthropy and alchemic magic, and it largely succeeds due to this attention to detail, alongside the often gorgeous (if appropriately grimy) rotoscoped animation. Whether a sacred strand of straw, ostensibly taken from baby Jesus’ manger, is stolen, or a werewolf is arising from Hell through the dirt, or an ostentatious local baron is going hog-wild with his wife after drinking a potion that cures his impotence, the film does its best to make and leave an impression.
In that regard, many memorable images surely do arrive, including plenty of penises, but the film ultimately ends up buckling under its limited sense of storytelling. Subplots and particular moments of both drama and comedy that ought to land with emphasis instead feel scattershot, and there’s an overreliance on the film’s pounding electronic score (courtesy of co-director Lauris) to make up the slack. It’s an admittedly effective strategy on the surface, but it risks drowning out the story and its emotional weight, and it ‘s not nearly enough to suture together a holistic experience. In other words, there’s the feeling that the filmmakers, perhaps understandably, are indulging every extreme, narratively and stylistically, they can to grab the viewer’s attention, but it has somewhat overbearing consequences. Tougher to counter is that it’s always a treat to see such an energetic mixture of aesthetic ambition, juvenile humor, and historical distinction, particularly in animated film. But even at just 94 minutes, Dog of God undeniably overstays its welcome, and plenty of viewers are likely to leave feeling a little exhausted. Then again, perhaps that’s the point.
Published as part of Fantasia Festival 2025 — Dispatch 1.
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