Harris Dickinson’s Urchin pulses with a bruised shimmer, immersing viewers in a world that stays grounded where Mike lives—scavenging, dreaming, and ultimately falling through himself. Frank Dillane injects the story with a restless heartbeat, turning every street corner into a threshold of possibility. The film resonates with a mostly positive vibe, fueled by fierce ambition, genuine tenderness, and surreal moments that hit with the vivid intensity of memories struggling to surface.
Mike’s journey begins in the cold, raw morning air of London, where a violinist’s piercing stare slices through him like an injury he refuses to acknowledge. Addiction dominates his days, yet the film refuses to reduce him to a simple condition. Instead, Dickinson masterfully crafts a portrait of a man relentlessly reaching for a version of himself just out of reach. The opening scenes—wallet stolen, accusations thrown, violence ignited—set the stage for a cycle he repeats endlessly, a cycle the film portrays as both a trap and a ritual.
The surreal touches—the drainpipe plunging into a cavern, the violinist drifting through thresholds, the chapel waiting in the darkness—shape the film’s emotional landscape. They represent the architecture of Mike’s mind, the rooms he retreats to when the world becomes overwhelming. These visions resonate because they don’t announce themselves as symbols; instead, they arrive as pure sensations, allowing us to feel the growing pressure within him. They anchor the story in dream-like logic, pulling us toward the elusive truth he desperately avoids.
Mike’s tragic flaw is his stubborn belief that he can outrun the consequences of his actions. He navigates life driven by a desperate longing for redemption but lacks the patience to earn it. This vulnerability manifests in every interaction: the abrupt attack on Simon, the confession during the job interview, the breakdown during the mediated meeting when Simon recounts his daughter’s fear. Dillane masterfully reveals the fleeting glimpses of remorse within him—the way it unsettles his composure, nudging him toward change only to push him back into old patterns.
His time in Franco’s kitchen offers a delicate foothold amid chaos. The staff forms a fleeting constellation around him, while Nadia’s unwavering presence becomes his anchor, giving him a voice. Yet, the cave visions persist, the violinist reemerges, and an unrelenting pressure builds within him. When Franco dismisses him, the film takes on a grittier tone, but it never abandons his story. Instead, it tracks him into the refuse truck, into Andrea’s comforting arms, and into the dance show where memories shatter open, exposing the raw violence of his attack on Simon.
The relapse sequence unfolds with an almost inevitable sense of doom, yet Dickinson keeps the camera locked on Mike’s face, uncovering the fear shadowed beneath his bravado. Nathan’s return—sober, composed, cautious—serves as a mirror Mike desperately avoids. Their final confrontation in the chapel vision becomes the emotional core of the film. Nathan’s embrace, the sudden shove through the door, the tumbling abyss: it’s a reckoning dressed as a ritual—a confrontation with the self Mike continually refuses to face.
The film’s final movement radiates a strange, haunting serenity. Mike curls into the fetal position, slipping into darkness as the moment settles with a quiet, painful clarity. It’s neither triumph nor surrender but a man caught between versions of himself, held by the film’s belief that even in destruction, there can be a kind of grace.
Urchin captivates because it steadfastly refuses easy redemption. It paints a vivid portrait of addiction, recovery, and relapse—feelings that are raw, immersive, and unflinching in exploring the surreal edges where memory and desire entwine. Frank Dillane delivers a profoundly yearning performance that anchors the film, while Harris Dickinson’s direction guides with a calm, instinctive touch.
LETTER GRADE: B+. On Hulu.
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