There are films we watch simply to be entertained—films that occupy us for two hours and gradually fade from memory once the credits roll. Then there are films that remain with us for years, not because of their narrative complexity or visual grandeur, but because they awaken a question within us that we had long forgotten to ask. Pixar’s Soul was such an experience for me.
Over the course of my life as a film critic, I have watched hundreds of films from different countries and artistic traditions, from the masterpieces of Italian neorealism to the poetic works of Iranian cinema and the philosophical meditations of Scandinavian filmmakers. Yet few American animated films have prompted me to reflect so deeply on the meaning of existence as Soul.
On the surface, Soul tells the story of Joe Gardner, a middle-aged music teacher whose lifelong dream of becoming a professional jazz musician finally seems within reach. Just as he is about to realize that dream, an unexpected accident places him somewhere between life and death. What follows is not simply an adventure through the afterlife but a journey into the very essence of what it means to be human.
At first glance, the film appears to be about finding one’s purpose in life. But as it unfolds, it quietly dismantles that assumption. Joe believes that music is the singular reason for his existence. He is convinced that if only he can perform on a great stage, fulfillment will follow. It is an illusion many of us recognize. We tell ourselves that happiness lies somewhere ahead: in professional success, in recognition, in love, in financial security, or in the realization of a long-held ambition.
Yet Soul suggests that achieving our dreams does not necessarily provide meaning.
One of the film’s most poignant moments occurs after Joe finally experiences the performance he has long desired. Rather than feeling transformed, he is confronted by an unexpected emptiness. The world remains unchanged. The moment he had imagined would define his existence turns out to be just another moment.
The film evokes an old parable about a young fish who asks an older fish where he might find the ocean. The older fish replies, “You are swimming in it.” So often, we become so preoccupied with reaching a destination that we forget to experience the journey itself.
As someone who has devoted much of his life to writing about cinema, organizing film festivals, and engaging in conversations with artists from around the world, this realization felt deeply familiar. How many times have I believed that the completion of a project, the success of a festival, or the achievement of a professional milestone would finally bring lasting satisfaction? And how many times have I discovered that meaning resided elsewhere—in a thoughtful conversation, in the smile of a grandchild, in a piece of music, or in the quiet beauty of an ordinary afternoon?
Visually, Soul represents one of Pixar’s most ambitious achievements. Its recreation of New York City is vibrant and richly detailed, capturing the energy and unpredictability of urban life. In contrast, the film’s metaphysical landscapes are minimalist, abstract, and dreamlike. The filmmakers succeed in creating two distinct worlds: one tangible and grounded, the other philosophical and symbolic.
But perhaps the film’s most remarkable accomplishment lies in the way it addresses mortality.
In many family films, death is either softened beyond recognition or presented as something frightening and taboo. Soul chooses a different path. Death is neither villainized nor ignored. Instead, it is portrayed as an inevitable part of existence—something that gives urgency and significance to life itself. Without becoming preachy or simplistic, the film invites audiences of all ages to contemplate the finite nature of our time on earth.
The character of 22 is equally compelling. Having spent eons avoiding life on Earth, 22 sees no reason to be born. Yet through seemingly insignificant experiences—tasting pizza, feeling the wind, listening to the sounds of a busy street—22 gradually discovers that perhaps life does not require a grand cosmic purpose to justify itself.
There is something profoundly human in this idea.
In many Eastern philosophical traditions, as well as in the poetry of Persian mystics, wisdom is often found not in extraordinary achievements but in an awakened awareness of the present moment. Happiness is not something postponed until all conditions are perfect; it exists in our capacity to truly experience what is already before us.
The film’s music reinforces this philosophy beautifully. Joe’s passion for jazz reflects spontaneity, improvisation, and emotional expression. Meanwhile, the ethereal score accompanying the film’s metaphysical sequences creates an atmosphere of introspection and transcendence. Music here is not merely decorative; it becomes an extension of the characters’ inner lives.
If Soul has a weakness, it may be that its desire to communicate complex philosophical ideas occasionally leads it toward overexplanation. Some of the mystery surrounding its themes becomes slightly diminished as concepts are verbalized. Yet this minor flaw does little to lessen the film’s emotional impact.
What stayed with me after watching Soul was not a definitive answer about the meaning of life, but rather a transformation in the nature of the question itself.
Perhaps the central issue is not, What great purpose was I born to fulfill? Perhaps the more meaningful question is, Have I truly paid attention to the life I am already living?
Soul reminds us that existence cannot be measured solely by accomplishments or ambitions. Life often reveals itself in smaller moments: in the steam rising from a cup of tea, in the laughter of loved ones, in the rustling of autumn leaves, in the notes of a piano drifting through an open window.
These experiences may appear ordinary, but they are the substance from which our lives are made.
When I finished watching Soul, I found myself thinking less about death and more about life—not the abstract idea of life, but the daily miracle of being present within it.
That, I believe, is the film’s greatest achievement.
Like the finest works of art, Soul does not offer easy answers. Instead, it encourages us to pause amid the noise and urgency of our routines and ask whether we have overlooked the beauty hidden within the everyday.
For all its technical brilliance and narrative inventiveness, Pixar’s Soul ultimately succeeds because it speaks to a universal longing: the desire to understand why we are here.
Its answer is deceptively simple.
Perhaps we are here not merely to pursue extraordinary destinies, but to notice the extraordinary nature of being alive at all.
Soul is not just one of Pixar’s finest achievements. It is one of the rare contemporary films that gently reminds us that life itself—messy, fleeting, imperfect, and beautiful—is enough.
