That Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Porky Pig speak with such verbosity is arguably a sign of the relative inexpressiveness of rabbits, ducks, and pigs. By contrast, the great animated dogs can communicate empathy, amusement, contempt, or boredom with a cocked head or upturned ear. For example, in the animated adventures of Charles M. Schulz’s Charlie Brown, Snoopy observes and often intrudes on the action with regularity without ever being reduced to mere words. Herge’s Snowy, animated in the Tintin cartoon series in the 1990s and the Tintin movie Steven Spielberg made in 2011, is similarly nonverbal. Wes Anderson, who memorably made a star out of live-action hound dog Buckley in The Royal Tenenbaums, arguably erred when giving lines to his cast in his cartoon Isle of Dogs.

Best of all is Nick Park’s Gromit, the plucky but frequently nonplussed companion of a cheese-preoccupied, gadget-enthralled Englishman named Wallace. Rendered in the cozy, intimate art of stop motion animation, the Wallace & Gromit short films are a testament to the inexhaustibility of the cartoon canine: Despite possessing no voice and few movable facial features beyond his ears and eyes, Gromit has entertainingly accompanied his tinkering master in short films that stretch back some 36 years, including A Grand Day Out (1989), The Wrong Trousers (1993), and A Close Shave (1995). The films are not only endearing but award-winning. The Wrong Trousers and A Close Shave won Oscars.

Now, two decades after the release of the pair’s maiden full-length effort (Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit) in 2005, man and dog have returned in a new feature film that premiered on Netflix in December. Happily, Park and co-director Merlin Crossingham have left their heroes largely unchanged in the wholly delightful Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl. As ever, Wallace remains charmingly doddering, and Gromit alternately forbearing, annoyed, resourceful, and, above all, silent. This is a dog who, in the best British traditions, keeps his own counsel even while trying to serve or save his human companion. Gromit may stand as the most eloquent silent comedian since Charlie Chaplin.

In an early scene, Wallace insists on making use of the wide array of labor-saving devices with which he has tricked out the residence he shares with Gromit on West Wallaby Street, including a suds-filled bathtub that runs on a kind of trolley track and a tube that deposits Wallace from the tub and into his daily attire, sweater vest and all. Gromit grimly participates in this inefficient charade by pressing the requisite buttons, though he is displeased when jam, shot like a projectile onto Wallace’s toast, splatters on his face.

Far more worrying than Wallace’s perpetual Rube Goldberg-like improvements is his invention of a so-called smart gnome, Norbot — a maniacal automated helpmate who seems certain to displace Gromit in performing the household chores he savors, such as tending to the garden. With his plastic red cheeks, unceasing smile, and mechanically peppy voice, Norbot is a most unlikable creation: In one scene, Gromit contentedly knits a scarf while Norbot makes quick work of a onesie for Wallace’s signature outfit made entirely of yarn. Gromit takes to reading A Room of One’s Own and Paradise Lost. We wonder how Wallace could possibly prefer this soulless whirligig to his faithful four-legged pal.

One explanation, of course, is money: Feeling the pinch of bills — hard economic times have even reached British cartoon land — Wallace decides to farm out Norbot’s services as a kind of automated handyman. “All we have to do is sit back and let the machines take the strain,” Wallace says with ill-advised confidence. A fawning TV news report is aired on Wallace’s invention, which Gromit watches with his paws crossed. Worse is yet to come: Feathers McGraw, a penguin serving a term of confinement at a local zoo for the attempted theft of a diamond, hacks into Wallace’s computer and alters the programming in Norbot. Under the direction of McGraw, the newly nefarious robot sets about manufacturing a small army in his likeness — all with the purpose of freeing McGraw, absconding with the diamond, and assuring that Wallace pays the price for McGraw’s crime. Unsurprisingly, but satisfyingly, Gromit is the engine and source of the inevitable happy ending.

The plot is sufficiently busy, hectic, and ever-changing to keep even the most inattentive of children engaged, but the intricacy and charm of the character design and action will also satisfy grown-up interest. Savor the way Gromit rolls up his nonexistent sleeves at one point or the way McGraw successfully assumes the guise of a chicken by affixing a red glove to his head. The design of Wallace and the other adult humans remains a marvel. That their large, ungainly smiles reveal a total of four upper front teeth surely is a commentary on the legacy of British dentistry. Ben Whitehead has assumed voicing responsibilities for Wallace in lieu of the legendary Peter Sallis, who voiced earlier incarnations of the character and died in 2017. To this reviewer’s ears, the tone and inflection of the two performers are essentially indistinguishable. Reece Shearsmith provides the voice for Norbot, who, in his pre-evil form, speaks with monotonously high spirits.

As in Curse of the Were-Rabbit, the rather primitive world-building of the Wallace & Gromit shorts gives way to a far vaster universe in Vengeance Most Fowl, which includes a pair of police officers attempting to make sense of the case, numerous action set pieces, and even the use of a Wilhelm scream. In the manner of most modern cartoons, it relies on movie parodies and genre send-ups. In one scene, the incarcerated McGraw does pull-ups in the manner of Max Cady in Cape Fear. For purists, there is something a little too slick about such a singularly British concoction as Wallace & Gromit incorporating references to R-rated Hollywood movies.

Even if the series is not immune to the pressures imposed by Hollywood, Park and his collaborators are to be credited for keeping alive several honorable traditions over the course of multiple decades: the sheer loveliness of the technique of stop motion animation, the enduring quaintness of British humor, and the legacy of cartoon dogs who save the day without saying a word. 

Peter Tonguette is a contributing writer to the Washington Examiner magazine.