We often talk about stop-motion as a “labor of love,” but in the case of Michael Granberry’s Les Bêtes (The Beasts), it feels more like a ritual. There is a specific kind of magic that happens when an artist manipulates physical matter frame by frame, and Granberry leans into the inherent “creepiness” of the medium to craft something that is equal parts gothic horror and whimsical opera.

Explicitly citing the influence of the pioneer Ladislas Starevich, Les Bêtes transports us into a monochromatic purgatory. The narrative—if we can call such a surrealist odyssey that—centers on a power play between a harlequin jester and a high-seated Bishop. Around them, a menagerie of skeletal insects, clockwork monstrosities, and clay-born beasts scuttle through the shadows. It’s a film that understands the “uncanny valley” and moves into it, turning the grotesque into something beautiful.

The technical execution is nothing short of breathtaking. Shooting in stark black and white for the majority of its runtime, Granberry uses chiaroscuro lighting to emphasize the textures of the puppets—the frayed fabric, the lumpy clay, and the sharp metal. This sensory experience is heightened by Lito Velasco’s score, which provides a dramatic, theatrical backbone to the silent chaos on screen.

“I wanted to explore the intersection of the divine and the monstrous,” the film seems to whisper through its visual metaphors. The final transition—a sudden, jarring leap from B&W rot to a vibrant, blooming world of color—serves as a stunning narrative exhale. It’s a reminder that even in a world of monsters and jesters, there is a cycle of renewal waiting just behind the curtain.

Les Bêtes is a masterclass in independent animation. It doesn’t just pay homage to the masters of the past; it carves out its own dark, enchanted corner in the history of the medium. For anyone who misses the tactile, “handmade” feel of cinema, this is your new obsession.