One of the more agreeable outcomes at this past weekend’s Golden Globes was Flow winning for Best Animated Feature. As of this writing, it’s still playing here in the Valley, at Pollack Cinemas in Tempe and at AMC Ahwatukee 24.

If you see only one Latvian animated movie about a cat this year, make it this one. Directed by young Gints Zilbalodis from a script he wrote with Matiss Kaza, this wordless, dreamlike, almost free-associational feature is possibly the most visually beautiful movie of the year, and it has one of the year’s most vividly drawn heroes, too.

The main character – the title character? I couldn’t be sure; the title (Straume in Latvian) may just refer to the flow of the waters that sweep the characters along – is a small, dark, short-haired cat with wide, perpetually alarmed eyes. The creature wanders an idyllic wooded area alongside a body of water, reflection-gazing and hoping to score a fish from some stray dogs.

Then an enormous flash flood rages through the area. The cat barely makes it to high ground, and eventually takes refuge, as the waters continue to rise, aboard a derelict boat which gathers an inexplicably diverse assortment of other animal refugees from different continents or islands: a patient capybara, a ring-tailed lemur with hoarder tendencies, a stern but protective secretary-bird, a playful, irksomely guileless retriever.

It may be a postapocalyptic world through which the craft carries this oddball crew; human habitations appear to be deserted, and a colossal whale that surfaces nearby from time to time seems to be a multi-flippered mutant. Gradually the animals learn to steer the boat a little; they also learn to care and even sacrifice for each other.

If this sounds sentimental and annoyingly anthropomorphic, I can only say that it didn’t feel that way to me. The animal behavior comes across believably, as does their capacity for growth and empathy. If it’s anthropomorphic, it’s about as low-key as anthropomorphism can be, and the subtle yet insistent sense of allegory for the human experience is moving.

Zilbalodis takes Flow into pretty epic and mystical realms in the later acts, yet on another level the movie works as an animal odyssey adventure in the genre of the Incredible Journey films, or Milo & Otis. At the core of it is the sympathetic and admirable pussycat, meowing indignantly at the perils all around, yet facing them with heart and pluck. It’s not to be missed.

On Tuesday afternoon, Bob Clearmountain was driving back from Apogee Studios in Santa Monica to his home in Pacific Palisades. The revered producer and mixer has helmed records by such rock legends as Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones, Roxy Music and David Bowie, often out of his home studio, Mix This!, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He could feel the Santa Ana winds ripping up the coast and through the canyons.

“From Sunset Boulevard, I could see flames up on the hill and smoke. I thought, ‘Well, I’m sure the fire department’s gonna be there pretty soon.’ The news said the wind was blowing in the other direction, so I kind of assumed they’re going to contain it pretty soon. But a few hours later, my daughter called me and said, ‘You’ve got to get out of there.’”

As Clearmountain, his wife and his assistant packed up three cars with gear and valuables, they still hoped it was just a precaution. Much of the gear in the studio he’d custom-built over decades was immobile — the Bösendorfer grand piano or the SSL recording console couldn’t get out on short notice.

“We grabbed everything we could think of. I had some some things that Bruce Springsteen had given us; he had done a little one of his little stick-figure doodles for my wife’s 50th birthday, which I thought, ‘Well, that’s something pretty special.’

“But we just figured we’d be back in a few days,” Clearmountain continued. “That once the evacuation order was lifted we’d just be loading everything back into the house. It really didn’t occur to us that this could be the end of our world.”

They decamped back to the Apogee Studios in Santa Monica, where Clearmountain and his wife, Apogee founder Betty Bennett, stayed in a guest apartment usually reserved for bands passing through. Helpless, they watched the scene through their doorbell camera as the Palisades fire advanced down the hillside toward their community.

“We could see our neighbor’s fence was catching fire and our trash cans were on fire. The cameras went out at about quarter to 8, and we figured, ‘Well, I don’t know, maybe somehow it’s just gonna skip our house because our walls are all stucco.’ We didn’t know anything until Wednesday, and then we heard that that all but one house on our street were gone completely.”

“Finally, this morning, one of our new neighbors somehow got in and took a picture of our driveway with nothing behind it,” he said. “Just a driveway and some ashes.”

The scale of the destruction from this week’s fires is overwhelming, with at least 10 lives lost and more than 9,000 structures damaged or destroyed in Pacific Palisades, Altadena and other neighborhoods. Among that devastation are irreplaceable cultural sites, which include beloved recording studios where artists made some of their cherished albums.

The rustic recording studio retreat is a visual icon of Los Angeles music history. In the L.A. recording community, Clearmountain’s home is a nearly sacred site. Many other studios are also believed to be damaged or lost in the area and in Altadena, which has become a home for L.A.’s indie music community.

Clearmountain is only beginning to take in the reality of losing his home and a generationally important recording studio, one built over decades to his exact designs and full of instruments and gear that yielded some of the most popular rock music of our time. He said he’ll continue to work one way or another in the wake of this.

“I look at it as a challenge, the next chapter,” he said. “I can’t really look back. I can’t spend too much time being bummed out about it. I’ve got to say, ‘OK, what can I do?’ I’m going to change the style of what I do. I’m gonna do what I do, but do it differently, and hopefully it’ll be good, maybe better than what I was doing. That’s all I can think right now.”

He worries about other studios and home recording sites that don’t have his resources to rebuild elsewhere. The lives and homes lost are innumerable and devastating, but the cultural loss and inability of musicians to work is part of the tragedy as well.

“Maybe there should be a fund. Not for me, because I’m doing fine, but for other studios,” Clearmountain said. “There’s a lot of people that aren’t as well-off. I can survive, but there are people that that are going to have a really rough time, and they need help. I’d be willing to chip in and help them.”

When talking about the preparation for his role of Pete Seeger in “A Complete Unknown,” Edward Norton expressed recalcitrance at getting into specifics, sharing, “I think we’re getting so hung up on the process and the behind-the-scenes thing that we’re blowing the magic trick of it all.” Watching “Diane Warren: Relentless,” a documentary about the titular, animal-loving, fifteen-time Academy Award nominee songwriter, it’s evident that Warren herself thinks similarly. Those hoping to walk away with a greater understanding of her prolific output (she’s written for more than four hundred and fifty recording artists) commensurate with her success (she’s penned nine number-one songs and had thirty-three songs on the Billboard Hot 100) will do so empty-handed, though not without having been entertained. 

“As soon as someone starts talking about [process] I want to kill myself,” she groans. “Do you want to be filmed having sex?” To that end, without offering this insight, the documentary at times feels almost too standard and bare, especially for an iconoclastic creative like Warren. Director Bess Kargman plays through the expected beats initially, ruminating on her success and career with cleverly placed adulation assists from talking head interviews from industry icons like Cher, Jennifer Hudson, and Quincy Jones, before narrowing focus and focusing on how her upbringing and family circumstances led to where she is today.

There’s a deceptive simplicity to these proceedings, though. Yes, it may follow the typical documentary structure, but by refusing to disclose the exact “magic trick” of Diane’s success, the film is much more effective at ruminating along with her. It’s the kind of documentary that won’t immediately spark new revelations about its subject through flashy announcements. But, when played back down the line, one can see that the secrets to success were embedded in ordinary rhythms. It’s akin to revisiting old journal entries after you’ve spent years removed from the headspace of the initial writing. You walk away with a greater understanding not just of the past but of the present, too.

Refreshingly, the film knows that the best way to honor its subject is not to make her more “agreeable” or sugarcoat her sardonic tone but instead revel in it; the doc desires to capture her in all of her complexities and honesty. When we first meet Warren, she’s getting ready to drive over to her office with her cat. It’s no different from many set-ups you’ve probably seen before in other documentaries. A handheld camera shakily follows its subject through quotidian rhythms as if it were a vlog of sorts. Yet, while in the car, Warren directly breaks the fourth wall and cheekily tells the camera that it can be placed at a better angle before grabbing it and trying to reposition it herself. It’s a small moment, but one that underscores her personality.

Another facet that’s interesting about this approach is that we see, at times, how this is uncomfortable for Warren herself. She doesn’t try to mythologize her life and work, not out of a false sense of humility but because she genuinely seems content with letting her creative process be tinged with mystery even unto herself. She’s aware that the camera’s probing nature can often disrupt the sacredness of that mystery, and it’s funny to see the ways she navigates its presence, especially when she begins to share more personal details of her life, such as the fact that while her father supported her music, her mother did not. She flirts between wanting to be anonymous and knowing that visibility (especially in the entertainment industry) is the key to longevity. It’s an interesting metanarrative to witness on-screen, even when the subject matter may vary at a given moment.

Given Warren’s confidence, the documentary could have further explored her relationship with the Academy Awards; it’s evident it’s important for her to win and Kargman isn’t afraid to linger on the devastation and anger she feels when she’s snubbed for the umpteenth time. It raises a question, though, that for all of Warren’s self-confidence, why does she feel the need to be validated by what this voting body thinks? It’s clear that not winning hasn’t deterred her or reduced the quality of her music, as she uses each loss as further fuel to keep creating.

When the film does get into more personal territory, such as detailing the creation of songs like Lady Gaga’s “Til It Happens to You,” which was inspired in part by Warren’s own experience of being sexually assaulted, we get a little bit of more insight into her creative process. The songs she writes that are directly inspired by her life (“Because You Loved Me,” a tribute to her father is another) are significant because, as some of her frequent collaborators note, she’s penned some of the most renowned songs about love despite deriding romance in her own life. Kiss singer Paul Stanley, who wrote “Turn on the Night” with Warren, observed that it’s “easier to write about heartache when you don’t have to live it … but you do fear it.” For Warren, she shares how writing love songs feels more like acting and doing role play; it’s touching to see the contrast between songs rooted in her personal history and ones that aren’t.

At times, “Diane Warren: Relentless” falters in embodying the transgressive nature of the artist at its center. But upon further reflection, this is the type of lean, no-nonsense documentary that could be made about an artist like her; it’s disarmingly straightforward and bursting with a candor befitting of someone toiling away in a merciless industry purely for the love of the game. It may be hard to get on the film’s wavelength at first. But then again, Warren wouldn’t have it any other way.