In her book Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag critically discussed how we position ourselves as empathetic beings, expressing our desire to help those who are less fortunate than us – but in the process, repeated exposure to those who are suffering can cause a psychological fatigue, even amongst those who genuinely set out to provide support for those who need it. The concept of the burden of compassion is a tricky one to discuss, particularly since it provokes conversations around the tackiness of making economic assessments while viewing those who are less fortunate from a proverbial ivory tower. It’s a subject that we cannot fully comprehend, and which becomes increasingly more difficult when it comes time to describe it. This ultimately becomes the foundation for Urchin, in which Harris Dickinson makes his directorial debut with the story of Michael, a young man who has spent most of his life in pain – homeless since he was much younger, he has taken to begging for a living, resigning to what he considered to be his immovable fate, since every attempt to lead a different life fails dismally, leading back to this point, making it far more convenient to just simply not attempt to improve his life. After a misguided attempt at making some quick money, Michael is once again sent to prison, and upon his release, he forces himself to listen to the voices that suggests that he puts in a concerted effort to changing paths, even though he knows it is a treacherous journey filled with doubt, depression and deep despair, all of which he is ready to confront for the sake of avoiding being on the streets once again. An astonishing debut from one of the most promising young artists of his generation, Urchin is an incredible piece of cinema, and one that will undoubtedly strike a chord with a number of viewers, whether or not we have experience or knowledge about any of the themes depicted throughout this tender and heartwrenching drama.

One of the simplest joys in life is sitting on a busy street corner and silently observing the people passing by – their lives are rich and dynamic, and we are not likely to ever know the extent to which this is true, since we exist only momentarily in the same space. Urchin is a film built around this premise, or at least evoking the same feeling we get when peering into the lives of people we are never likely to encounter again, a sensation that has been the source of a lot of philosophical debate and pondering. Dickinson constructs this film as the story of a young man drifting through life, being unsure of where the path is going to lead, but doing what he can to avoid making too many detailed plans, as these rarely turn out the way he intended, usually as a result of his own stubbornness, which he only realises after having made several mistakes and coming to terms with the fact that he’s to blame, rather than society. It’s far from a film that gives the protagonist the benefit of the doubt – Michael is volatile, lazy and consistently refuses to take the necessary steps – but he’s one of many people trapped in this cycle, and doesn’t realise that the only way to step out of it is to simply leap, regardless of the fear and uncertainty that it usually accompanies. Urchin questions the morality of desperation in how it explores the protagonist’s journey – it asks whether or not we can justify actions done in times of sincere and severe need, as well as attempting to figure out if there’s any distinction between unforgivable criminal activity and attempts to survive. It’s certainly quite a bleak film, and it is structured around the hopelessness of existence, which is far from a pleasant concept, but it ultimately does get to a more optimistic point, underlining the importance of letting go and simply embracing the unknown. Dickinson, like many of the directors who inspired him, refuses to assert judgment or make any grand statements – Urchin is a more objective, descriptive piece rather than a persuasive social issues drama, and the firmness of its conceptual core is an exceptional example of this in practice.

Considering the extent to which it can be considered quite a character-based piece, Urchin is unsurprisingly reliant on the lead performance, which is the central focus of this entire film, and the reason for its radical success. While the part of Michael could have easily been played by Dickinson himself – the character is written to be around his age and has many attributes that we can see him managing to effectively convey – he resists the temptation to add leading the film to his already long list of duties, and instead takes a smaller (but still very memorable) supporting part as a young man who is also in a similar position to the protagonist, but sets out to change his own life through doing the hard work, which proves to be quite a challenging endeavour but one that is ultimately worthwhile. The film is therefore led by Frank Dillane, an extraordinary young actor who has done a substantial amount of work over the years, and will likely be familiar to a lot of viewers, but who has yet to have his breakthrough, which we can easily imagine will change with this film, since the scope of his performance is absolutely astonishing and worth every bit of acclaim. This is a wholeheartedly charismatic performance, delivered by an exceptional actor who is willing to leap into the unknown to deliver something that is simmering with heart, humour and an abundance of pathos, to the point where it feels like a generational performance. Anyone who was not already familiar with Dillane will undoubtedly find it impossible to forget his performance, which I suspect is going to skyrocket him to much more acclaim as he continues to grow as an actor. Dickinson demonstrates such incredible maturity in the construction of this film and its protagonist, which is a sign of his stunning compassion and ability to craft something genuinely moving.

Urchin is a film that wears its heart on its sleeve, and Dickinson is clearly not at all interested in pandering to the same one-dimensional tropes that we often see associated with these films. Instead, he chooses to craft something straightforward, acknowledging the incredible power of a story well-told and consistent in its vision. He certainly had a strong enough roster of filmmakers from which he could take inspiration – and while it may seem sacrilegious to even suggest someone may exist in the same conversation as them, the likes of Ken Loach and Mike Leigh are clear influences throughout this film. This extends beyond the kitchen-sink realism that defines a lot of this story, but also in how the director crafts the narrative to fit certain ideas – the gritty, raw depiction of the life of the working-class, particularly in cross-generational friendships, is very much aligned with some Loach films like Kes and I, Daniel Blake, while the slight traces of irreverent humour and deep, heartfelt emotions are very much a remnant of Leigh’s legacy, being a blend of Life is Sweet and All or Nothing – and whether or not he was directly inspired by them or simply continuing a long legacy of British productions in which the plight and pleasures of ordinary people are outlined in vivid, earnest detail, the film is a masterful piece. Urchin is most appropriately described as a bittersweet and moving testament to the human condition, and while it is not particularly complex in theory, it does have some very intriguing elements scattered throughout. There are a few forays into more offbeat narrative components, such as the vaguely surreal interludes and the experimental coda, both of which indicate that Urchin is not a film that should be viewed as entirely realistic, but rather functions as a meditation on its core themes, a version of reality that extracts the fundamental essence of what it means to be human and splashes it across the screen in a way that is singularly impossible to forget.

Anyone who has hit rock bottom will know that it’s a place that is both comforting and terrifying, and the more time we spend there, the further it begins to look like home – but breaking the cycle that ultimately leads to that point is challenging and essential, which is something that Dickinson sets out to explore throughout Urchin, a film that covers an abundance of fascinating themes, each one more complex and engaging than the last. Ultimately, the film asks a very simple question: at what point do we stop asking for second chances? It’s a difficult question to answer, and he doesn’t seem to know the solutions himself, which is perfectly reasonable considering the scope of the narrative. There is something so beautiful about a film that is willing to undergo the catharsis of simply surrendering to the unknown, especially when it refuses to provide us with a neat conclusion for the protagonist – for Michael, this journey is ongoing and will probably never be entirely complete, since recovery is not always about the destination, but rather the journey. We follow him as he exists in a modern, realistic purgatory, caught between difficult decisions and handling the feeling of perpetually being in a state of limbo, unable to move forward but still doing what he can to survive. The strong performances, dynamic camera work and emotional balance of different tonal shifts, ranging from exuberant joy to intense melancholy, all form the foundation for a film that tackles difficult subject matter without ever coming across as pitiful or condescending, making Urchin one of the year’s most exceptional, earnest works of compassionate cinema, and a tremendous indication that Dickinson truly has what it takes to become an extraordinary cinematic voice.