Wildwood 2026 Movie Review Trailer Poster

 "Enjoy handmade art before it disappears forever." Attentive viewers might catch these words, which flash briefly on screen during the opening moments of *Wildwood*—amidst a flurry of imagery and visual gags that whiz by as the young protagonist pedals furiously through the cozy, bustling streets of Portland, Oregon. The phrase, printed on a sign next to some rustic-looking pottery by a local artisan, gently pokes fun at the city’s wholesome, slightly "hippie" spirit; yet, at the same time, it serves as a sincere endorsement of the artisanal virtues that define *Wildwood* itself. 

If this inside joke sounds a bit self-congratulatory, director Travis Knight and his team have every reason to boast: the sixth feature film from the independent animation studio Laika is a dazzling achievement—a *stop-motion* feat that is tactile, richly detailed, and bears an unmistakable human touch—on a scale rarely seen in this medium. It stands out, by a wide margin, in an animation market otherwise dominated by digital graphics that are polished to a sheen—often to an unsettlingly artificial degree.

Director: Travis Knight
Writers: Chris Butler, Carson Ellis, Colin Meloy
Stars: Peyton Elizabeth Lee, Jacob Tremblay, Carey Mulligan

This, in itself, is nothing new. Laika’s visual style—pleasantly organic, distinctive (and, it should be noted, subtly enhanced by digital effects)—has captivated audiences ever since their 2009 debut, *Coraline* (directed by Henry Selick and now a modern classic of children’s cinema), through to the charming, eccentric comedy *Missing Link*, released a decade later. Both films embraced a quirky, inviting narrative style that perfectly complemented the handcrafted nature of their production. However, in the historical Japan-set adventure *Kubo and the Two Strings* (2016), Knight pushed this inherently miniaturist medium into bold, epic territory—an ambition he pursues even more fervently in this expansive, 130-minute adventure, which spans everything from gothic fairy tales to visceral war fantasy. 

While some of Laika’s long-time fans may hold a special affection for the studio’s smaller, more eccentric works, *Wildwood* is a spectacular success, both in terms of its formal achievement and its ability to connect with audiences of all generations. If the film’s narrative feels somewhat more generic than what one might expect from Laika’s signature style, the same could be said of the book upon which it is based. It is a hefty, 500-plus-page tome by indie musician Colin Meloy (known for his work with the band The Decemberists) that sits somewhere between children’s literature and young adult fiction. The novel is not particularly original—neither in its prose nor in its conceptual approach, blending elements from the works of C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Enid Blyton, and Kenneth Grahame, not to mention a significant portion of Jim Henson’s *Labyrinth*—yet it remains an absorbing tale. 

The same holds true for the film, in which the studio’s regular screenwriter, Chris Butler, manages to actually improve upon the source material: the dialogue is sharp and spirited, and the relationships, though sketched out quickly, feel authentic. The film opens with a sequence of unsettling and bewildering strangeness—one that immediately justifies its PG-13 rating, which might come as a surprise at first glance. 

It serves as a warning to parents looking for an animated film to entertain young children: there are bloody scenes and an emotional intensity here that should not be overlooked. As a storm rages outside, a boy—situated in an imposing castle in the middle of a forest—steps out onto a high terrace adjoining his bedroom and leaps into the void, ending his life before his desperate mother can intervene. When a crowd gathers at the scene of the tragedy, it is revealed that the boy was, in fact, an android; his chest lies shattered, exposing the metallic gears within.

Some time passes before the context for this solemn, enigmatically beautiful opening is provided. The story then shifts to a far more recognizable childhood: that of Prue, a precocious 12-year-old girl (voiced by Peyton Elizabeth Lee). Prue lives with her bohemian, "hipster" parents—played by Jake Johnson and Maya Erskine—and her younger brother, Mac, in a quiet Portland suburb. She begins to yearn for a less ordinary life—or, at the very least, an existence a bit less monotonous and dull. Her parents are serious, overprotective individuals (Mac is never allowed outside, for reasons initially left unexplained) who place great stock in local folklore and superstitions—particularly those concerning the so-called "Impassable Wilds."

Early on, in her desperate search, she is joined by Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), a well-intentioned but quintessential "nerd" and classmate—who, as it turns out, is far stronger than one might imagine. Before long, however, they find themselves separated within a surreal and dizzyingly diverse ecosystem, where various territories are ruled by an eclectic array of entities: militaristic coyotes reminiscent of "Redcoats," birds of prey of immense size and superior intelligence, and human figures ranging from benevolent sorceresses to imposing bandits and petty bureaucrats. Prue’s quest—already a daunting task—is further complicated by long-simmering tensions between these factions, with the malevolent and deeply tormented Dowager Governess (voiced masterfully by Carey Mulligan) serving as the central figure in the conflict. The innocent arrival of this outsider could well be the spark that ignites a war.

The saga is both complex and classically simple, brimming with fairy-tale tropes—from grieving queens to children lost in the woods—and populated by a host of vibrant supporting characters, which justifies its stellar voice cast. (Mahershala Ali plays a gruff yet kind-hearted warrior; Awkwafina voices a sarcastic but helpful rat, highly reminiscent of Templeton from E.B. White’s work.) Although the pacing occasionally falters—and the runtime, while impressive, is perhaps longer than necessary—the film remains, for the most part, utterly fascinating. 

This is due, in part, to the fact that every new corner of this vast, boundless landscape provides the claymation team with an endless array of tones, textures, creatures, and mythological references to play with. A majestic, enormous golden eagle—endowed, unsurprisingly, with regal authority by Angela Bassett—comes to Prue’s rescue at a crucial moment; it is a truly astonishing creation, in which every feather has been articulated with as much care as the ivy leaves strangling parts of the forest. Similarly, an imposing sacred tree undergoes a captivating transformation through the seasons, its foliage shifting in a matter of seconds. 

Yet, the animators pay equally meticulous attention to subtler details: the fierce expressions and snarls animating the jaws of every coyote, or a single tear glistening in close-up against a soft, flushed cheek. All of this is exquisitely illuminated by veteran cinematographer Caleb Deschanel (*The Black Stallion*, *The Passion of the Christ*), who manages to bathe an enchanted clearing in the perfect twilight glow, or masterfully manipulate the long, slender shadows of the forest during the "magic hour."

Dario Marianelli’s score is restless and rich in nuance, drawing inspiration at times from the frenetic strings of Celtic music, military-style percussion, or lively acoustic instrumentation. Notably, the inclusion of the country-rock track "Portland Oregon" by Loretta Lynn—early in the film—is a stroke of genius, offering an unexpected touch of modernity. (Meloy’s band also contributes an inspiring song for the end credits.) 

While *Wildwood* occasionally borders on visual and sonic excess, this very abundance is the essence of a story about exploring and embracing every corner of the world around us—even those we have been strictly forbidden from entering. In this sense, Knight’s film draws heavily from the rich tradition of fantasy and folklore, yet it possesses enough distinct exuberance and imagination to set a new benchmark. Perhaps there is still a long road ahead for hand-crafted art.

Watch Wildwood 2026 Movie Trailer