Suites, Steel, and Superpowers: Rewatching Incredibles 2 Through an Architectural Lens

There is a certain category of film that lingers in the memory not through its narrative twists, but through its visual atmosphere — the way light slants across a floor, the deliberate geometry of a space, the furniture that serves as both setting and silent participant in the drama. Incredibles 2 is, on the surface, a story about a family of superheroes. However, upon a recent viewing, I found my attention drifting from Elastigirl's high-speed chases and Jack-Jack's multidimensional meltdowns, becoming utterly absorbed by the architecture itself: the borrowed Deavor residence, the minimalist yacht that transforms into a battleground, the lair-like precision of Edna Mode's design sanctuary.

Pixar's accomplishment extends beyond animating environments to curating them with a purpose that is deeply philosophical. In my view, the architecture in this film functions as an active character. It operates as an ideological blueprint, shaping the characters' identities, conflicts, and interactions as powerfully as their superhuman abilities. I have begun to watch Incredibles 2 with the same focused attention one might bring to a design retrospective: with a sense of reverence, a critical eye for detail, and frequent pauses to admire a masterful lighting plan or a thoughtfully composed interior.

The film is visually grounded in a retro-futuristic utopia that draws heavily from the sleek, expansive optimism of mid-century modernism. We see it in the organic, flowing curves reminiscent of Saarinen, paired with a distinct undercurrent of Cold War-era paranoia. This is a world where aesthetic perfection masks latent danger, and comfort is a carefully constructed illusion. It is suburbia reimagined through the dual lenses of suppressed power and relentless social performance. Nowhere is this central tension more palpable than in the spaces the Parr family is forced to occupy — spaces that are at once aspirational and restrictive, beautiful and deeply unsettling.

The Parr House ©2018 Disney•Pixar

The Parr House: Glass, Glamour, and Domestic Discomfort

When the Parr family relocated to a temporary home by the ever-optimistic tycoon Winston Deavor, the residence is presented as a generous gift, a sanctuary designed to protect the public image of superheroes. However, it quickly becomes apparent that this is no refuge. This is a house conceived to impress, a statement of power and prestige rather than a haven for living. Perched dramatically on a precipitous cliff edge, its design prioritises spectacle as much as shelter. The imposing glass-and-stone structure, striking from every angle, exudes a glamour that evokes the audacity of Frank Lloyd Wright, though not necessarily in flattery. One might interpret it less as an homage and more as an architectural dare — a exercise in modernism so assertive it feels almost designed to court failure.

Fundamentally, the house presupposes that its inhabitants prove themselves worthy of its perfection. While visually stunning, the sort of property Architectural Digest would feature, it is inherently impractical for family life. The Parrs, with their wonderfully chaotic and robust dynamic, are accustomed to the functional, if mundane, comforts of their original suburban home. In stark contrast, this new environment feels like a relentless performance of an ideal, a role for which the family has not been given a script.

The house’s open-plan design is visually arresting yet psychologically demanding. Soaring double-height ceilings create an impression of boundless space, almost daring one to stretch out and claim its vastness. The extensive glazing, which frames breathtaking views, simultaneously functions as a one-way mirror, a constant reminder that the family’s every move is on display. This creates a condition of enforced domestic transparency, where the inhabitants are observed not only by the outside world but by the architecture itself.

Perhaps the most disquieting feature is the house’s fundamental lack of intimacy. The sunken conversation pit, a clear nod to Palm Springs modernism with its ‘70s-style sensibilities, feels less like a living room and more like a staged set. Every element, from the lava-rock water feature to the sinuous staircases and floating platforms, prioritises sculptural form over lived-in function (or in other words, “style over substance). It is a space curated to within an inch of its life, designed not for comfort but for the uncompromising exhibition of success.

Herein lies the central irony. The Parrs, despite their extraordinary powers, are a family grappling with the universal challenge of holding themselves together. The juxtaposition between the house’s monumental grandeur and the family’s disjointed emotional state is stark. The architecture, meant to convey permanence and triumph, instead mirrors their rootlessness. While Helen is physically absent, reclaiming her superhero identity, Bob is left to navigate the domestic front, his inner turmoil reflected in the house’s cold, sharp angles and imposing scale. He is a giant caught between worlds, and the building echoes his profound sense of displacement.

In essence, the house is a liminal space — a ‘dream home' articulated in the vocabulary of success, yet one that fails to comprehend the distinction between spectacle and substance. It resists easy judgement, being both dazzling and deeply uncomfortable. Its beauty is seductive, yet its sharp edges offer no warmth. It speaks of boundless ambition, but also of the existential alienation that so often accompanies the relentless pursuit of an ideal.

From a production standpoint, this architectural character was no accident. In an interview, production designer Ralph Eggleston cited the 1963 home of architect James Evans in Connecticut, an icon of mid-century modernism that famously eschewed conventional comfort in favour of pure visual impact. Like Evans's house, the Parrs' borrowed abode exemplifies a belief that architecture must first make a statement, often at the expense of the human need for refuge.

Yet, as with all potent art, the house possesses a strange allure. One begins to appreciate the rigour of its design even while recognising its inherent hostility. The Parrs, in turn, learn a vital lesson: they can survive the discomfort of transition. They do not require a perfectly sculpted home to remain a family. The house, for all its mismatch, becomes the perfect backdrop for their struggle — a space they cannot belong to, mirroring a world that refuses to accept them.

Ultimately, the Parr House transcends its narrative role to become a powerful metaphor for modern life itself: dazzling yet alienating, beautiful but isolating. Just as the family must adapt to its demanding environment, we too must navigate the grand spectacle of the world, recognising that alluring beauty does not always equate to comfort, and that the quest for greatness can often leave us feeling inexorably unmoored.

The Yacht: Glamour, Power, and the Illusion of Control

In Incredibles 2, the DevTech superyacht materialises as a floating monument to ego, lacquered in walnut and meticulously dressed to impress. It cuts through the water with a self-aware arrogance, as if designed to outshine the very sun on its chrome fittings. From the moment the Parr family steps aboard, an unsettling sensation pervades the scene. The vessel is too sleek, its symmetry too perfect, its polish too absolute.

This is a craft that asserts its authority simply by existing, reminiscent of a billionaire's signature on a cheque the ocean never endorsed. Its design evokes the sweeping, expressive modernism of Eero Saarinen's most ambitious work, structures like the TWA Flight Center, which curve with such conviction they seem to shape the future through sheer confidence.

Winston Deavor presents the yacht as the centrepiece of a celebration, a victory lap for his public relations campaign to rehabilitate superheroes. The scene is set: heroes are back in the public eye, champagne flutes are raised, and the optics appear secure. Yet, the environment feels fundamentally theatrical. Every corridor and stairwell is curated with such precision that the entire vessel appears constructed not for seaworthiness, but for spectacle. This is modernism at sea, drenched in mahogany and glass, yet undercut by a subtle menace that reminds every passenger of their transient, conditional status as a guest.

This, of course, is precisely the point. The yacht is engineered to dazzle, to deploy diplomacy as theatre. Every element feels rehearsed, from the calibrated smiles to the strategically placed lighting and the horizon perfectly framed by panoramic windows. It is a place where declarations of “making history" are uttered while the actual course of events is being hijacked in the engine room. The yacht exists not to travel, but to be seen travelling — a magnificent show of progress that remains, in a deeply ironic twist, entirely directionless.

The underlying absurdity is palpable. Supers remain outlawed, public scepticism persists, and yet this floating bastion of cinematic luxury proceeds as if the battle is already won. The cocktail dresses, designer suits, and caviar canapés represent a world performing absolute certainty on a deck built directly over a chasm of uncertainty. The yacht embodies a floating contradiction: supremely luxurious yet intrinsically unstable, exquisitely polished yet fundamentally precarious. It is utterly unanchored from any substantive truth, which is precisely why its eventual unravelling feels less like a revelation and more like a structural collapse.

When the crisis arrives, the illusion detonates with visceral force. The same windows that once framed serene seascapes become portals to chaos. The impeccable symmetry is swallowed by panic. The wood-panelled fantasy transforms into a slick, treacherous death trap. The narrative ceases to be subtle; the yacht reveals its true nature, demonstrating that luxury without a solid foundation is merely the decorative prelude to an inevitable disaster.

Winston Deavor is the architect of this fragile fantasy. The yacht serves as his perfect mirror: performative, polished, and obsessively concerned with presentation. He is a man who genuinely believes the right image can overwrite any inconvenient reality. Consequently, he builds this ship as a travelling temple to his gospel of visibility, hoping to plaster superheroes across magazine covers and billboards. His goal is to sell the idea of hope, mistaking public relations for genuine salvation.

Yet, his convictions possess no real sturdiness. The ship's helm, minimal to the point of fragility, reflects the brittleness of Winston's own ideology. It is all gloss and no grit. When the Screenslaver seizes control of the ship's systems, the lesson becomes devastatingly clear: no matter how luxurious the interface, a failure to comprehend the underlying forces guarantees a catastrophic downfall.

Perhaps the most resonant image in this sequence is not the yacht itself, but the Parr family battling against its disintegration. We see a mother stretching her body across steel cables to absorb a devastating impact; a teenage girl steering against a raging current with no training and total resolve. It is a visceral depiction of domesticity waging war against infrastructure, of a family confronting a monument to corporate ego. Improbably, they succeed.

It’s thrilling. And also, just a little tad absurd, I suppose. The notion that a family's raw, emotional energy could halt the architectural embodiment of corporate excess is patently ridiculous, and yet this is the film's central thesis. It argues that humanity, in all its messy sincerity, can still triumph over empty spectacle. It posits that love, obligation, and intuition ultimately hold more power than style or strategic spin.

The yacht, therefore, becomes the perfect ideological battleground. It is the ultimate theatre of deception and the stage for a climactic undoing of control. Here, design meets consequence, and it loses decisively. The very structure built to command the world's attention becomes a wreck that exposes the inherent fragility of that command.

Even in its failure, the yacht remains cinematic. Its demise is a grand, symbolic statement. A decadent, arrogant, and visually flawless vessel is undone by the very fragility it sought to conceal. In a less assured film, this might feel heavy-handed. Within the bold, expressive universe of The Incredibles, the metaphor lands with perfect precision, serving as a fitting epitaph for a floating house of cards.

Thus, the yacht sails into the abyss as a cautionary lesson. It stands as a stark warning that the more beautiful the mask, the more brittle its foundation. In a world increasingly obsessed with the appearance of control, the structures we build to project power often reveal just how little of it we truly possess.

Edna’s House: Brutalism Meets Genius

Edna Mode’s residence stands as a love letter to brutalism, reimagined through the exacting lens of haute couture and sharp wit. It functions as a fortified bunker of brilliance, a minimalist temple dedicated to ego and intellect, a character as precisely composed and uncompromising as its owner. Every material selection communicates an ethos of absolute control: polished concrete, structural glass, brushed steel, and leather that appears both luxurious and tactical. The remarkable achievement of the space is its ability to feel opulent while remaining radically sparse. It avoids the maximalist clutter of Tony Stark’s laboratory and the monastic severity of Batman’s cave, occupying a singular middle ground where function and beauty merge into a singular philosophy. In this world, the highest function is to be fabulous and infallibly correct. One imagines she does not merely sit in her chairs; she assumes a position upon them, as part of a curated collection of Italian masterpieces that serve as extensions of her personal creed.

Edna curates her environment with the same precision she applies to assembling a garment: with sharp lines, decisive forms, and a complete intolerance for anything that droops, dithers, or deviates from her standard of perfection. The resulting structure feels less like a conventional home and more like a definitive architectural thesis.

Approaching the property is akin to entering a fortress redesigned by someone who finds traditional fortifications overly theatrical yet pragmatically sound. High walls, a security gate that scans one's entire genetic history, and courtyards of such stark minimalism they feel like existential tests establish its character. At the centre of it all sits Edna herself, sipping espresso in a chair whose cost and aesthetic judgement likely exceed that of a luxury automobile. Every element of the space communicates the same unwavering message: no mess, no maybes, no mediocrity.

©2018 Disney•Pixar

The architecture is unapologetically concrete, though this is not the grey, crumbling material of car parks and neglected institutions. This is concrete elevated to couture: smooth, deliberate, and sensual in its severity. A finish so impeccable it compels visitors to stand straighter and mind their elocution. Floor-to-ceiling windows are present, yet they do not so much invite light as stage it with the calculated expertise of a master lighting designer. Steel provides structural integrity, glass oversees the ensemble, and leather appears only where functionally essential, such as on the armrest of a chair that might also serve as a discreet panic button.

The residence is, in every conceivable way, a physical manifestation of Edna herself: compact in footprint yet monumental in its presence.

Then Jack-Jack arrives.

He toddles into this monument to discipline like a warm, chaotic breeze through a marble crypt. Herein lies the film's subtle architectural miracle: the space does not reject him. Instead, it bends, ever so slightly, not from sentimentality but from a place of respect. The brutalism adapts to accommodate Jack-Jack; what was once clinically cold becomes curiously engaged, and the walls seem to echo with genuine laughter for the very first time.

The moment Edna agrees to babysit constitutes a quiet architectural rebellion. Her hermetically sealed bunker, tighter than a billionaire's alibi, transforms into a playground. This transformation occurs not because the space softens, but because Jack-Jack's irrepressible nature overwhelms its austerity. The concrete does not intimidate him, and the steel cannot suppress his spark. Indeed, the clinical minimalism provides the perfect neutral canvas for his shapeshifting mayhem. His manifestations of fire, lasers, and teleportation become a form of kinetic graffiti splashed against Edna's clean lines, creating a symbiotic relationship rather than causing pure destruction.

A certain poignancy emerges from the unexpected rapport between Edna and Jack-Jack within this space. She is a woman of lines and limits; he is a being of pure flux. Their interaction becomes a compelling study in aesthetic opposition. She offers no coddling, and he offers no compliance. Yet, their combined energy becomes generative, resembling a collaboration between a modernist architect and a jazz musician, building something from a fusion of improvisation and rigour.

It is here that the house's design reveals deep-seated adaptability. For all its apparent rigidity, sharp edges, and echoing spaces, it manages not to repel life but to frame it with striking clarity. Jack-Jack is permitted his outrageousness precisely because the house possesses the confidence to remain undisrupted by him. The sheer assurance of its design is its greatest resilience. Their comedic interplay unfolds in brutalist surround sound, with the architecture playing the straight man to the infant's punchline.

A particularly notable aspect is the house's complete lack of self-consciousness. Unlike the Parrs' cliffside display home or Winston Deavor's performative yacht, Edna's lair is not designed for external validation. It is conceived as a direct extension of her psyche. There is no separate room for ego because the ego is the room itself. It evokes the vision of a hypothetical collaboration between Frank Lloyd Wright and Rei Kawakubo, given free rein with concrete.

A deeper metaphor resonates throughout this design. In a narrative where superheroes grapple with public perception, Edna's home represents a state of pure interiority and architectural self-actualisation. She engineers the spotlight to her exact specifications, and defines it on her own terms. Her house does not adapt to fashion; its very existence precedes and influences it.

This is likely the source of its feeling of fundamental completeness. Where other spaces in the film feel transitional, borrowed, or performative, Edna's is whole. It contains everything it requires: intellect, isolation, utility, and drama. The structure simply is her, and she is it.

Ultimately, Jack-Jack’s visit unveils the house's latent capacity for wonder. Brutalism, so often accused of emotional coldness, becomes the perfect backdrop for delight. The house, in all its formidable seriousness, learns how to smirk. And Edna, the woman who designs with the finality of a supreme decree, finds herself, for once, genuinely surprised.

Screenslaver’s Lair: The Cold Geometry of Control

In stark contrast to the film's other environments, Screenslaver's lair presents an architectural exercise in pure manipulation — a cold, sterile, and deeply alienating space. Where the Parrs' home embodies domestic warmth and Edna Mode's residence a fortress of creative genius, this lair functions as a chilling machine of psychological influence. Every wall serves as a screen, and every screen operates as a weapon, creating an environment where technology supplants humanity. The boundaries between the digital and physical realms dissolve into a singular, inescapable narrative of control.

From a design perspective, the lair stands as the ultimate spatial representation of dominance through surveillance and distraction. Its circular form, the relentless rhythm of its screens, and the unbroken repetition of hypnotic visuals all speak to a system of mechanical dominance. Nothing within this space acknowledges humanity, warmth, or the human spirit. It is a realm dedicated solely to strategic control, the aesthetics of power, and total isolation. The screens themselves become the environment, enveloping characters in a state of perpetual, heightened tension.

The layout speaks to something even more insidious: the architecture of isolation. The space offers no possibility of escape or refuge, only a continuous loop of observation. The lair's spiral form echoes the spiral of control, with each chamber folding back upon itself and every screen reinforcing a narrative of domination. The absence of windows, conventional doors, or natural light creates a labyrinth without a centre, a world governed exclusively by the relentless, overarching gaze of the interface.

Architecturally, the lair's power stems from its unsettling invisibility. Unlike Winston Deavor's ostentatious yacht, it commands absolute authority. This is a space designed to erase individual identity and subsume the mind, overwhelming its occupants both visually and mentally. There is no allowance for the self, only the smothering presence of an all-seeing digital eye.

Incredibles 2 deploys this architecture with brilliant thematic purpose. The lair operates as a potent visual metaphor for the ways technology can consume and control modern life. Within its confines, individuals exist at the mercy of the screen's gaze, stripped of autonomy and devoid of choice. It functions as a cautionary tale, mirroring our contemporary anxieties about pervasive surveillance and the role of technology in shaping perception.

Upon entering the lair, one feels instantly diminished —s tripped of voice, agency, and visual relief. The space lacks any textural grain to hold onto; every surface is smooth, slick, and synthetic. These surfaces, whether active screens or awaiting activation, erode the boundary between physical architecture and ideological intent.

The lair's genius resides in its deceptive simplicity. Its power operates on a rhythmic, hypnotic level, superseding traditional architectural principles. Light pulses with a mechanical regularity, and screens cycle through entrancing patterns. It is a factory of absence and a theatre of submission, where the audience becomes the performance and the stage observes with an unblinking eye.

This environment feels disturbingly familiar. It rejects the comfort of a lived-in room with its clutter and warmth, instead mirroring our real-world subservience to the screen. The lair is algorithmic in its very essence; each turn leads to the same destination, and each room broadcasts identical signals. It is a Möbius strip of surveillance, an architecture of recursion that actively denies progression. One does not move through it; one orbits, endlessly.

Circularity defines the entire experience. The central chamber spins like a centrifuge, spatially reinforcing the psychological spiral the Screenslaver intends to induce. The geometry is relentless: corridors loop back, vistas remain flat, and vertical escape is impossible. It operates on the flat logic of the screen itself: consume, repeat, obey. This is the architectural equivalent of a binding yet unreadable terms and conditions agreement — impenetrable and inescapable.

A brutal silence pervades the space, broken only by the electric whine of screens and the hiss of automated doors. This absence of organic sound is a deliberate design choice, depriving occupants of comforting rhythms and temporal cues. The intention is the complete loss of time and self. Here, clocks hold no meaning; only endless cycles matter. Repetition becomes a new doctrine, and the lair its stark chapel.

A fascist cleanliness dominates the aesthetic. The space is spotless, not in a manner that suggests luxury, but with a chilling, antiseptic sterility. The absence of fingerprints or footprints implies a space that resents human presence. If Edna's house invites brilliance, this one expels everything it cannot convert into a digital signal.

For all its coldness, the lair possesses a perverse, mesmerising beauty. It commits with utter thoroughness to its philosophical premise, offering no embellishment or distraction from its core purpose: distraction itself. It is the purity of a prison cell designed by a user-experience team.

Its most sinister quality is its fundamental invisibility. Unlike the opulent yacht, which openly demands interpretation, the lair conceals its mechanisms. It feels no need to dazzle or intimidate; it simply functions. This makes it a powerful parable, demonstrating that the spaces designed to escape notice are often the ones exerting the most control. The screens embody a doctrine, and we, the viewers, are left uncertain of where the lair ends and our own screen-saturated living rooms begin.

This ambiguity constitutes the true horror. The lair is a mirror disguised as a villain's domain. We have all occupied rooms illuminated solely by a glowing rectangle, surrendering our attention to the soft tyranny of curated images. The lair is merely a hyperbolic version of an existing reality: the screens that mediate, manipulate, and mute our lives.

Consequently, when Elastigirl confronts the Screenslaver not in a gothic dungeon but within a glowing, symmetrical void, the encounter feels less like a physical battle and more like a spatial exorcism. She is fighting both a villain and an ideology — one that insists control is best administered not through brute force, but through the insidious power of the interface.

Architecture as a Reflection of Identity, Power, and Conflict

Upon revisiting Incredibles 2, my focus shifted from the virtuoso animation and narrative pacing to a deeper appreciation of its architectural landscape. The homes, hideouts, and vessels ceased to be mere backdrops, revealing themselves as profound expressions of character psychology, motivation, and the central conflicts driving the plot. In this masterfully constructed world, architecture functions as a dynamic extension of the film's emotional and ideological core.

The Parrs' original home, a domestic haven radiating warmth and lived-in comfort, establishes a stark visual opposition to the cold, performative power of Winston Deavor's yacht and the sterile, algorithmic control of Screenslaver's lair. Situated between these extremes, Edna Mode's residence acts as a bridge — a fortified sanctuary that asserts individual brilliance without sacrificing creative integrity. Each space serves as a deliberate character study: the Parr house embodies a family grounded in mutual support; the yacht mirrors its owner's lofty yet fragile ambitions; and Edna's minimalist temple facilitates her existence in its purest, most uncompromising form.

A compelling realisation emerges from this analysis: these diverse spaces share a unifying purpose. They materialise the inner worlds of their inhabitants, giving tangible form to their deepest desires, frustrations, and limitations. The architecture in Incredibles 2 operates as a physical manifestation of each character's worldview, demonstrating that the structures we inhabit inevitably reflect the values and conflicts we carry within.

Viewing the film through this architectural lens illuminates a fundamental truth: space and design are never neutral. They are active, indispensable components of the narrative. The luxurious yet treacherous yacht, Edna's brilliant fortress, and Screenslaver's calculating lair each function as a silent, yet pivotal, character. These environments play an integral role in advancing the plot and exposing the hidden emotional currents flowing beneath the surface. The architecture, much like the heroes and villains it houses, possesses a dual nature, speaking equally to expressions of power and the underlying fragility that sustains it.

Ultimately, Incredibles 2 presents a world where design and character are inextricably fused, each influencing and shaping the other with remarkable subtlety and insight. The film posits that our built environment — the spaces we inhabit and the structures we erect — serves as a definitive extension of our identity, our authority, and our most personal conflicts. In the end, the architecture of Incredibles 2 tells its own rich story, one that resonates with the same power and clarity as the heroes who move within its frames.

S xoxo

Written in Monaco

18th March 2025