The year is 1977. NASA has just launched the Voyager mission—a deep-space exploration probe, intended to make contact with faraway life—into the depths of our known universe. 15.5 billion miles away, a child sits behind a window, a single tear threatening to spill. These two images could not feel more distinct: the probe, an object built of hopes, dreams, discovery, gleaming metal surrounded by stellar incredulity; the child, a mere speck of stardust, one of many upon a much-dwarfed planet, but a whisper in the grandeur of the cosmos. Miraculously, however, both have stemmed from an identical thought: a single question, echoing through the echelons of time, propelling scientific inquiry and personal reflection alike. It’s this one question that, similarly, drives Pixar’s latest feature, an intergalactic caper that ensues upon one child’s reckoning of perhaps this species’ oldest question: are we truly alone?

 

This is, of course, a layered question, one that—for Elio, as for us—may hold various definitions. For Elio (Yonas Kibreab)—orphaned as a child; raised by his researcher aunt; slighted, in his perception, by the unjustness, the mundanity, of Planet Earth—loneliness is a concept with which he’s come to feel quite familiar. The sheer possibility of extraterrestrial contact thus holds much appeal: if we, as a planetary dwelling, are not alone in the vast universe, then perhaps a better world may exist for Elio: one in which he may feel more at home, accepted by those whom he has not yet met. If we are not alone, then there might be someone out there to accept him, too.

 

It is a thrilling possibility for the boy. Steeped in genuine scientific exploration, the film is immediately anchored in the fascinations of a recognizable reality: a decision that ultimately grounds the narrative, enhancing the humanistic elements of the events that lie ahead. An excellent sequence, early in the flick, transforms a simple planetarium presentation into an astral map of visual magnificence. It is here, in which Pixar’s world-class animators uncover the bounds of the animated medium; gleaming cosmos, glistening stars, illuminate the screen, a supernova of artistry that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. As Elio—rapt, captivated—begins to comprehend the sheer vastness of the universe, so, too, does he become a conduit for the audience, stunning discoveries exemplified by a cinematic medium in which the only bounds are those of one’s imagination. 

 

Watching Elio ponder the possibility of other lifeforms—intelligent, accepting, better—one can’t help but be drawn into his passionate pursuit. Co-directors Madeline Scarafian and Domee Shi, alongside excellent newcomer Kibreab, construct a protagonist who immediately skyrockets to the upper echelon of Pixar’s greatest. With a breadth of quirks, a pointed passion, a penchant for discovery—of life, of worlds, of self—he leaps off the screen with confidence, captivating through his assured command of the prototypical (yet indisputably satisfying) coming-of-age arc. Similarly, Glordon—radiant, delightful Glordon; an instant friend of Elio’s, and the unequivocal highlight of the supporting cast—imbues each sequence with such whimsy. Nostalgic, almost, in the childlike innocence permeating through each brilliant smile, he is the shimmering soul to Elio’s steadfast heart, brightening every moment he’s on screen. It stands to reason, then, that the place in which Elio truly shines is via the construction of each character: leads aside, even the most minute players gleam in their own moments, be it through the exquisite expression of an extraterrestrial design, the emotivity coursing through a vocal performance, or the sheer balance of ‘quirk’ and ‘flaw’ that makes each Communiverse Ambassador feel so beautifully well-rounded.

 

This is certainly a welcome strength—particularly as, upon first glance, the narrative appears astonishingly simple. Elio’s ultimate abduction unveils the existence of the Communiverse, a celestial gathering of interplanetary leaders tasked with exchanging knowledge—and maintaining peace—between the galaxies. Mistaken for the leader of planet “Uh-Earth,” Elio’s probationary period commences imminently, introducing him to a vast universe of unique languages, delicacies, and beings beyond his wildest dreams. Alas, not all are fit for induction into such a pacifist alliance: Lord Grigon, emperor of a planet ruled by violence, battle, refuses to accept his own failed induction, vowing to enact the force of his wrath among those who shut him out. As the Communiverse prepares to flee—stranding any who have yet to be initiated—Elio strikes a deal: he’ll negotiate with Grigon… to receive full induction to the Communiverse upon his successful return.

 

Elio’s insistence to remain in the Communiverse may seem an expected motive—and yet, there is a commonality between both he and Grigon, one which provides weight to his seeming impulsivity. Shunned by those in their greater surroundings, both ultimately wish for acceptance, inclusion: a fascinating foil between both hero and antagonist. Once again, it is through character work in which Elio shines, anchoring the celestial events with a steadfast reflection of their—and, in turn, our—ultimate humanity.

 

Elio is, above all, a film for those who have ever felt, well, different. It is a beacon of hope, for those who feel forgotten: discarded, alone, as the world turns ever-farther on its axis. Perhaps it is a knell: the sense that, at the end of the day, what every soul ultimately strives for is acceptance. That said, one mustn’t alter who they are to accomplish such a feat. We are all worthy of such embrace; there are those out there who will love us as we are—many of whom are within our own personal universe.