Bold take: grief can fracture a person and still forge a deeper, more luminous self. This is the core truth at the heart of Versa, Disney Animation’s Oscar-qualifying short, which channels an immense personal loss into a nonverbal, cosmic meditation on love, memory, and healing. In just six minutes, two star-crossed lovers drift through a galaxy of feeling—ranging from joy to sorrow to acceptance—without a single spoken line, using only expressive animation and a soaring score to carry the story. Here’s how filmmaker Malcon Pierce translated a deeply intimate experience into a universal cinematic language, and what that means for audiences exploring grief, resilience, and renewal.
Where Versa came from starts with a long, quiet curiosity about the stars. More than a decade ago, a friend introduced Pierce to the Albireo system, a binary of blue and yellow stars that orbit each other. He imagined this celestial dynamic as a vehicle for storytelling at Disney, exploring dance, movement, and the ways performance can convey emotion. Yet the idea didn’t fit the right story at the time, and he let it drift away—until life gave it a new, painful resonance.
During the Moana production, Pierce and his wife faced a profound personal loss when their baby Cooper did not survive pregnancy. The event reframed grief as a force both vast and almost indescribable, and the healing path required confronting the reality of the loss rather than avoiding it. Pierce’s wife, a photographer, sought to capture the moment—an act that would become a bridge between memory and presence. She photographed herself in the nursery with Cooper’s crib and belongings, illustrating how continuing a relationship with what was lost could be a source of solace. When Pierce finally stepped into the nursery—initially reluctant—he felt as if he were being torn apart by the weight of what he’d lost. That moment, photographed by his wife, became a turning point in his understanding of grief and its potential to shape art.
A crucial discovery emerged from those photographs: a star pendant from a friend and the growing compassion behind a new charity, Cooper’s Totes, started by Pierce’s wife to support foster children. The star imagery—an emblem of Cooper—began to permeate their lives. The couple later welcomed Casper, a rainbow baby, deepening the sense that life’s cycle continues even after loss. A star gifted by Pierce’s mother-in-law and a crystal candle holder that splashed rainbows across their kitchen window became symbol-rich touchstones that kept Cooper present in their daily life. This constellation of personal symbols reinforced the idea that a story about loss could be both intimate and transformative, and that a film could help others who share in similar grief.
Pitching Versa to Disney required courage. Pierce drew on infant-loss support groups and the experience of couples who grieve differently—one may want to talk openly, the other may retreat. He envisioned a nonverbal, choreographed space-dance about infant loss that could resonate with families who’ve faced miscarriage or stillbirth. He initially pitched to Jennifer Lee, whose vulnerability as a storyteller inspired him; she encouraged development and connected him with Paul A. Felix, a production designer with a penchant for astrology. Over a couple of years, the project grew from a concept into a more complete, emotionally honest narrative. The process proved therapeutic for Pierce, and the response from collaborators and audiences reinforced the project’s purpose.
The reception at screenings like the Ottawa International Animation Film Festival underscored Versa’s reach: many attendees shared stories of rainbow babies and personal losses, reinforcing the film’s aim to provide belonging and recognition to those navigating grief. The short’s animation, score, and visual design are its strongest communicators. The team faced the challenge of conveying complex emotion with minimal elements, balancing symbolic clarity with an intimate, human-centered core. The two main characters move not through speech but through a carefully choreographed physical language—an ice-dance-inspired movement that evokes both the fragility and resilience of love amid loss. This choice required close collaboration with choreographers and ice-dance experts to ensure the movements felt authentic, emotionally charged, and clearly legible on screen.
Visual symbolism anchors Versa’s storytelling. The nursery becomes a cosmic nebula, a physical manifestation of grief’s vastness, while a bassinet serves as a focal point—an emblem that grounds the abstract in a tangible memory. The emphasis on minimalism—reducing characters and props to their most essential forms—helps the audience feel the weight of loss without distraction. The color palette—deliberately swapping traditional expectations—for the mother and father was a small but meaningful decision. A moment of color evolution was sparked when the director’s partner suggested reframing the characters’ hues: the mother shifted to a cooler blue, while the father’s tones softened into warmth; the resulting palette communicates emotional shifts without words.
Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, informs the film’s central transformation. The idea is not to erase damage but to celebrate it, making scars a visible part of a stronger whole. Versa imagines the parents splitting apart under grief and coming back together as altered, more luminous versions of themselves. The stars remain their essence, signifying that grief begins as something that splits you open and, over time, helps you reconstruct a more resilient self. This thematic arc aligns with a broader understanding of mourning as an ongoing relationship with loss, rather than a fixed endpoint.
For those seeking a takeaway: grief is not something to be “gone through” and left behind. It is a presence to be carried, negotiated, and worn with time. Versa offers a compassionate, cinematic lens on that journey—one that invites viewers to reflect on their own losses and consider how memory, love, and community can help weather the darkest moments.
What do you think about the idea of transforming grief into art? Does the concept of wearing scars as a form of beauty resonate, or feel risky or controversial? Share your perspective in the comments and tell which moment in Versa you found most moving—or most provocative.
