Movie Review ~ Memoir of a Snail

Much as Ralph Bakshi pushed animation’s adult boundaries in the 1970s with Fritz the Cat and Don Bluth allowed darkness in to help  The Secret of NIMH shine brighter in the 1980s, Australian animator Adam Elliot quietly carved his own path in the 1990s, mastering what he dubbed “Clayography” – intimate stop-motion portraits of life’s beautiful loners. His latest creation, Memoir of a Snail, proves his most ambitious and touching work yet. This tragicomedy feels like an act of rebellion, a love letter to humanity’s messiest, most screwball contradictions.

Proving once again that Adam Elliot’s clay-crafted visions are anything but ordinary, Memoir of a Snail glides through the world of animation with a rare grace.  With movie theaters dominated by sleek CGI blockbusters and the biggest animated money-makers originating from massive conglomerates with marketing on their minds as much as narrative, Elliot’s stop-motion storytelling feels refreshingly unrefined—a tactile, heartfelt embrace of life’s imperfections. It’s a style that doesn’t just tell a story but embodies it, every frame imbued with purpose and personality.

Since entering the scene in 1996, Elliot has built a remarkable filmography exploring fractured families and resilient spirits.  From his early shorts Uncle and Cousin through his Oscar-winning Harvie Krumpet (becoming the first openly LGBTQ+ winner in the animated short category) and the beloved full length Mary and Max, each film has pushed clay animation into surprisingly mature territory. The personal nature of his visually distinctive work shines through, and it is at its most poignant in Memoir of a Snail.

Rooted in Elliot’s own experiences, this bittersweet tale follows Grace and Gilbert Pudel, twin siblings thrust into a whirlwind of loss and separation in 1970s Melbourne. The story unfurls with all the unpredictability of life itself, blending snail-themed hoarding, abusive guardians, and bittersweet reunions into a narrative that feels both bizarre and utterly humane.

The massive heart of Memoir of a Snail lies in its exploration of tenacity. After losing her father and being separated from Gilbert, Grace finds solace in her obsession with snails—a tender homage to memories of her late mother. This peculiar fixation becomes a lifeline, a reminder of the small, fragile joys that tether us to hope. Grace’s journey, fraught with heartbreak and occasional humor, plays into Elliot’s ability to balance morose despair with flights of fancy lightness.

Sarah Snook (Run Rabbit Run) brings remarkable depth to Grace, capturing childhood innocence and adult world-weariness in her vocal performance.  As Gilbert, Kodi Smit-McPhee (Maria) is equally compelling, his doggedness resonating with pure grit. Jacki Weaver’s (Stoker) funky Pinky steals the show, bringing a quirky energy to the story (you see a LOT of Pinky, that’s for sure) that greatly offsets its darker moments. And then there’s musician Nick Cave, whose gravelly tones as Pinky’s second husband lend a sardonic charm that feels tailor-made for the too-brief role.

The film is a visual feast of imperfections. With their exaggerated features and visible fingerprints, Elliot’s characters exude a handmade warmth that polished animation often lacks. The stop-motion work achieves moments of startling beauty – a collection of snail figurines catching moonlight, ashes scattered from a rollercoaster against a sunset sky – while maintaining its handcrafted charm.  This deliberate roughness invites viewers to lean into the film’s tangibility, a world where every crack and smudge tells its story from frame to frame.  Elena Kats-Chernin’s score deserves special recognition, her compositions moving from playful whimsy to heartbreaking melancholy with the delicate precision of a master musical storyteller.

The film’s humor, often crude and irreverent, is a buoy, reminding viewers of the absurdity and resilience that can coexist within our human experience. It’s a delicate balancing act, and Elliot executes it with a deftness that few filmmakers can match. The film earns its R-rating honestly, not for gratuitous content (though there is a good amount of clay-nudity) but for tackling its frank themes of abuse, sexuality, and deteriorating mental health with unflinching directness. Yet it never wallows in darkness for darkness’ sake. Instead, it finds humor in unexpected places while treating its characters’ pain with genuine respect.  Each frame feels charged with the authenticity of someone’s personally lived experience, reminding me of late-night conversations I’ve had where laughter and tears mingle freely.

Despite its heavy themes and ability to sit with discomfort, the film never feels overly sentimental. Instead, it invites viewers into a world where beauty and decay coexist naturally, each balancing the other as they do in reality.  Watching Memoir of a Snail feels like stumbling upon a forgotten garden—wild, imperfect, and teeming with life.  You’ll feel that the moment it begins as the credits play out over various items amassed by the characters.

Memoir of a Snail leaves behind a rare acknowledgment of life’s darkest moments while finding glimmers of light within them.   In crafting this delightfully eccentric film, Elliot has given us something precious: a story that treats growing up, growing apart, and growing whole again with equal tenderness.