Moana

The Living Ocean and the Burden of the Real

There’s a strange, almost nervous energy that hangs over the 2026 live-action *Moana*. It’s a film aware of its own shadow—specifically, the long, Technicolor shadow of the 2016 animated original. Director Thomas Kail, best known for his stage work with *Hamilton*, brings a theatrical sensibility to the project, but he’s fighting a different battle than he would on Broadway. He isn’t just retelling a story; he’s trying to translate the elastic, impossible physics of animation into the stubborn, gravity-bound reality of live-action filmmaking.



The central dilemma of this remake—and perhaps all modern remakes of beloved animation—is the question of texture. In animation, the ocean is a character because it can *be* a character; it can emote through its currents and expressions, liberated from the laws of physics. Here, Kail has to make that same ocean feel wet, dangerous, and immense. When we see Moana stand at the edge of the reef, the camera doesn’t just show us a beautiful view; it lingers on the churning, chaotic salt water. Catherine Laga‘aia, tasked with the near-impossible role of defining this character for a new generation, carries a different kind of intensity than the animated version. She isn't an icon; she’s a young woman standing on a beach, and the sheer scale of the horizon seems to press down on her shoulders.

I found myself watching Dwayne Johnson’s Maui with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. In the animated film, his design allowed for exaggerated, cartoonish movement—a physical comedy that felt fluid and boundless. Transitioning this to live action, Johnson is draped in tattoos and costuming that *should* feel like a caricature, but he pivots. He plays Maui not as a cartoon, but with a weary, muscular vanity. There’s a scene early on, where he’s trying to charm the ocean, where the camera tracks his movement from a low angle. You can see the effort in his frame, the way he carries the weight of a demigod who knows he’s past his prime. It’s an interesting choice, moving the character away from the manic energy of the original and into something slightly more melancholic.



Does it work? That’s the question that nagged at me throughout the second act. There’s a specific sequence—the journey across the open sea—that highlights both the triumph and the limitation of this approach. Kail treats the boat as a confined space, a stage of sorts, focusing on the dialogue between Moana and Maui. It’s here the film finally feels like it’s breathing on its own. When they aren't trying to match the spectacle of the 2016 version, they find a rhythm. They’re two people, isolated on the water, debating their place in the world. But then, the film remembers it’s a blockbuster, and the visual effects kick back in, smoothing over those rough, interesting edges.

*The Guardian*’s assessment of similar projects often warns against the "uncanny valley of nostalgia," and there’s a flicker of that here. The film is caught between being a respectful homage and a reimagining. When the music starts, it’s grand, but it feels distant, like hearing a song you know by heart played through a slightly different set of speakers. It’s not better or worse, just *different* in a way that’s hard to quantify.



Ultimately, I walked away thinking about the difference between looking at a painting and looking at a photograph. The animated *Moana* was a painting—vivid, heightened, emotional, and perfectly contained. This live-action version is a photograph; it’s grounded in the real, with all the messiness and light that entails. It’s an ambitious swing, and while I’m not sure it completely escapes the orbit of its predecessor, there’s a tactile, human ache to it that surprised me. It doesn’t just ask us to remember a story; it asks us to feel the dampness of the sand and the genuine, un-animated fear of a young woman heading out into the deep, dark blue. Maybe that’s enough.