The Incredibles Review

The Incredibles (2004), directed by Brad Bird and produced by Pixar, follows a misfit American nuclear superhero family. Mr. Incredible, the father of the household, secretly begins to carry out missions for an unknown weapons developer after being fired, while his family believes he has taken a new corporate job. The story juggles complex family dynamics and explores themes such as infidelity, individuality, societal expectations, and even darker undertones like suicide. Each character’s superpower metaphorically embodies these themes.

I watched the film in a UCL classroom in Central London, projected in 1080p. The relatively low resolution evoked forsaken memories of a childhood viewing, since well this was my first viewing. Despite, or perhaps because of, this grainy first impression, the film felt nostalgic, like I unlocked a memory. It’s built from the same emotional materials that construct the everyday American family. The Incredibles exists as both a nostalgic memory and a reflection on the sorrow of memory’s loss. A nostalgic memory:for many viewers (especially those who saw it as children), the film brings childhood memories – family, early 2000s animation, or the golden age of Pixar storytelling. Simultaneously, a reflection on the sorrow of memory’s loss: the film is about the loss of the past. Bob Parr cannot leave Mr. Incredible behind; he is longing for nostalgia of his glory days as a hero. There’s sadness in how time moves on, people change, and youthful purpose fades. So, the film doesn’t just make you feel nostalgic, it also reflects on what it means to lose the past, to grow up, and adapt to change. 

Though The Incredibles is exuberant, stylistically bold, and fast-paced, it is also emotionally nuanced. The dramatic heart of the film begins to take shape when Bob Parr (Mr. Incredible) accepts a mysterious new mission. In preparation, he visits his former suit designer, Edna Mode, and replaces his classic blue suit with a vivid red one. This change in costume, an essential element of mise-en-scène, functions as a visual metaphor. It signifies a symbolic shift: from nostalgia for the past toward enlightenment or confrontation with truth. The moment reminds me of The Matrix, where the red pill represents awareness and unfiltered reality, while the blue pill suggests denial and comfort. In this context, the red suit becomes more than just a suit; Edna removes the cape and it marks not only Bob’s external rebirth, but also his internal renewal of purpose, and the emotional risks that come with reclaiming both his identity and his place within his family. Interestingly, the color palette of the Incredibles’ suburban town is bleak and muted, especially when contrasted towards the new mission in the vibrant fantasy of Syndrome’s island. I believe this isn’t a result of dated CGI, but a deliberate artistic choice, emphasizing the monotony of daily corporate life that Bob Barr deals with against the enticing allure of heroism or attention. 

Brad Bird’s direction, particularly his quick-cut editing during the sequences on Nomanisan Island, amplify the hushed moments of anxiety and tensions beneath the spectacle as Mr. Incredible believes his family has been killed. That moment speaks to a parent’s deepest fear, losing their children. When we hear the screaming and trembling voices of Violet and Dash, we sigh in relief at their survival, all because of their mother, Elasticgirl, who truly holds the family together. Her agency is the strongest in my opinion. Believing his family to be dead, Mr. Incredible breaks, and heartbreak, after all, rests in all of us. As he grips Mirage, Syndrome’s assistant, ready to avenge their deaths, everything clicks. It captures a momentary lapse of sanity, a desperation born of love and helplessness. Regardless of Mr. Incredible’s superhuman strength, the one thing that truly holds him together is his love for his family; together, they complete and match each other like a puzzle piece. 

Each family member’s power exaggerates their role, Elastigirl’s stretching becomes a metaphor for a mother stretched too thin, balancing the needs of her entire household. Reminds me of my mother. Mr. Incredible is broad-shouldered, athletic, and quite literally struggles to fit his oversized upper body into his pants at one point, symbolizing the dichotomy between his egotistical and heroic nature with his role at home, work, and in his secret life. Violet, the shy daughter, creates force fields and turns invisible, echoing the insecurity and transition towards being a teen. Dash, the energetic son, must restrain himself from running at superhuman speeds. This reminds me of kids on their iPads, who are suppressed with tools to distract them from embodying their potential youthful exuberance. And baby Jack-Jack represents the wonder of uncontrollable and unpredictable powers that kids possess at birth.

In the final scene, another villain emerges, signaling not only a new threat but also the cyclical nature of life and the family’s ongoing work that must be done – internally and externally. It’s a metaphor for both an external antagonist and the family's ability to manage such issues. Michael Giacchino’s jazz-inspired score adds a stylish flair concludes the film to quietly ask: Will it ever end? 

I don’t think so. The film presents a clear binary between animation and reality: part of life, and part of the film, is the continual process of working on oneself. That’s the point, growth through love. The Incredibles seduces viewers into a shared space of aestheticized suffering, particularly in the moment the family nearly dies. Here, trauma becomes more than a narrative device; it becomes a site of emotional gathering, and even a form of identity. Drawing from Lacan’s theory of the objet petit a, the unattainable object of desire, The Incredibles positions itself just distant enough from real trauma to avoid overwhelming the viewer. Instead, it offers a therapeutic experience. I found the heightened emotional experience allowed me to live vicariously through each character, identifying my own early-20s uncertainties onto their individual journeys. This identification becomes a symbolic ‘real’, a psychological framework through which we process our familial relationships, fears, and evolving identities.