Clara Trevisan’s Mother of Dawn is a mesmerizing stop-motion short that lands somewhere between a cosmic fairytale and a handcrafted fever dream. Running just under eight minutes, the film doesn’t rely on dialogue, exposition, or conventional storytelling—and that’s precisely why it resonates. It invites you to feel, not just watch.
What immediately stands out is the animation style. As someone used to the dark whimsy of Tim Burton or the polished fantasy of Studio Laika, I wasn’t expecting something so raw, textured, and unapologetically surreal. If I had to compare it to anything, it would be Phil Tippett’s Mad God (which also screened at Fantasia Film Festival), though this leans less into chaos and more into cosmic poetry. The design is otherworldly—vivid and dreamlike one moment, then barren and eerie the next. It feels pulled from some subconscious mythos, and it’s unlike anything else on the festival circuit right now.
The narrative, while abstract, still lands emotionally. A cat-like creature trudges through a void-like landscape—haunting, yet deliberate. It consumes a bird—not out of malice, but as part of some larger cycle. What follows is transformation: stars blink into existence, a moon orbits an egg, and the cosmos seems to bloom from this single act. It’s an echo of ancient creation myths—from the Orphic Egg to the Big Bang—rendered in felt and fabric.
As the creature absorbs color and vibrancy, it seems to reach a new state. But then, just as quietly, it sheds that brilliance and moves on. There’s something quietly profound in that moment. It suggests that transcendence doesn’t require permanence. Even transformation is fleeting. The creature doesn’t claim what it helped birth—it simply exits, its role fulfilled.
The animation process itself mirrors this message: slow, deliberate, imperfect. You feel the effort behind every frame. That handmade quality adds weight to the film’s meditative tone. It’s less about plot and more about presence—being with the textures, the motion, the silence.
Mother of Dawn doesn’t hold your hand. It offers symbols and invites reflection. And that’s where it shines. It’s the kind of film that lingers—like a dream you can’t quite shake days later. For those drawn to experimental or independent animation, this is essential viewing. Trevisan uses stop-motion not just as a technique, but as a language for the strange, the sacred, and the sublime. The tactile materials give the film an eerie elegance; the fabric puppets feel both alien and achingly familiar.
5 out of 5
Meet Clara Trevisan,
Creator of Mother of Dawn
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