Tangles: turning grief into animation, humor and emotional truth

With Tangles, filmmaker Leah Nelson transforms a familiar subject — Alzheimer’s disease — into something visually inventive and emotionally alive.

Based on the autobiographical graphic novel by Sarah Leavitt, the animated feature follows Sarah as she returns to her hometown to help care for her mother after the first signs of Alzheimer’s begin to appear.

At first glance, the film may seem to follow the structure of many family dramas about illness: denial, arguments, emotional exhaustion and inevitable decline. Yet Tangles distinguishes itself through tone and form. Instead of relying entirely on realism, the film constantly uses animation to express fear, confusion, guilt and memory in ways live-action cinema rarely can.

That choice becomes the film’s greatest strength.

When Sarah’s mother gets lost during a Day of the Dead parade in Mexico, the world suddenly mutates into a distorted nightmare of skeletons and fractured images. Later, the mother appears as a puppet controlled by invisible strings, no longer fully connected to herself. At another moment, a violent wave crashes through the screen as the diagnosis emotionally overwhelms the family.

These sequences are not simply visual experiments. They externalize emotions that are difficult to verbalize. Tangles understands that Alzheimer’s is not only a medical condition — it is a psychological and emotional disorientation affecting everyone around the patient.

At the same time, the film refuses to drown in tragedy. Humor constantly interrupts the sadness. One recurring gag involving airplane announcements cleverly mirrors Sarah’s emotional state, turning ordinary instructions into ironic commentary on her anxiety and exhaustion.

This balance between comedy and grief gives the film much of its humanity.

The queer dimension of Sarah’s life also adds depth to the narrative. Her return home means temporarily stepping away from the community and identity she built for herself elsewhere. Caregiving becomes not only an act of love, but also a confrontation with family history and unresolved emotional tensions.

Visually, Tangles alternates between soft realism and more abstract passages. The animation style is expressive without becoming overwhelming, allowing the film to remain intimate even in its most imaginative moments.

Not everything feels equally fresh. Certain family conflicts and narrative beats follow familiar conventions of illness-centered dramas. The progression of the disease occasionally becomes predictable. Yet the sincerity of the storytelling prevents the film from feeling manipulative.

What ultimately makes Tangles compelling is its emotional honesty. The film captures the painful realization that caring for a parent often means becoming the emotional adult in the relationship for the first time.

Leah Nelson may not reinvent either family drama or animated cinema, but she brings them together in a deeply compassionate and intelligent way. Tangles is moving without sentimentality, funny without denying pain, and visually creative without losing emotional clarity.

It is a strong reminder that animation remains one of the most powerful forms for exploring memory, identity and intimate human experience.

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