On Life
Harris Dickinson's Urchin is a slow-grinding, gritty drama about a vagabond surviving the brutal streets of London. After being pinched for a spot of assault and theft, he is jailed before being spat out into a system that provides the tools and avenues for reintegration into society, before washing its hands clean of the discarded denizens of its fair city, hoping only that any potential failures in the future will be someone else's problem.
Yet, Mike, our urchin in question, is fully committed to turning his life around, going so far as to get a job, while daring to dream of a brighter future for himself. What I especially liked about Urchin was the ability to offer up the full experience of a life lived. Mike's story inspires from the outset, offering hope and happiness through validation, inclusion in outings with friends, and a general sense of purpose and drive toward something more. Yet, he's also served up great levels of frustration from colleagues and customers alike, desperation and anxiety over his changing circumstances, and large levels of rage and hopelessness brought on by his eventual relapse into drug and alcohol abuse.
Tragic though this may be, I was genuinely taken by Mike's capacity to navigate these changing tides with a spirit that always seethed with a degree of authenticity and a certain pugnacity. There never was a self-pitying resignation, but a stubborn insistence of being accorded respect for his personhood and overall dignity as a fellow struggler. There's an almost Sisyphian spirit pulsing through Urchin as Mike's boulder comes tumbling down to its original starting point after no small degree of effort to roll it up to its summit. His journey appears to have three interlocking themes: the natural, the industrial, and finally, the spiritual, and I liked Dickinson's irregular juxtaposing of the brutal London backdrop with lush shots of forest, caves, and general greenery. Mike's sad quarters with the dim outside light shining from the right, dwarfed by the majesty of a cave illuminated by an opening in a similar position, seeming to communicate a genuine loss of our connection with nature in exchange for the system servitude which only brings uncertainty and angst. And yet it's the film's resolution that left a satisfying taste in the mouth upon slightly deeper reflection, touching on the spiritual theme alluded to earlier. Although I warn you, reader, spoilers lie ahead.
Come To Me, All You Who Are Weary
I mentioned earlier the spiritual theme within the film, which permeates not merely through the meditative audio that Mike listens to for further inspiration and lasting change, but through more subtle moments which culminates into the film's fascinating ending. A silent violinist appears to be a continued fixture throughout the film, appearing at very pronounced points throughout Mike's journey. I came to interpret this mysterious woman as representing Mike's Death that appears at each of his main crossroads, very similar to the personal Death who appears to Hellboy in Guillermo del Toro's The Golden Army. In the first instance, she appears just before the violent assault which results in Mike's arrest; second, she appears in a bathroom stall just before Mike's descent into substance abuse which leads to him losing his job. Finally, she appears at the point where the film initially started for Mike, the rock bottom, which gives way to the classic choice of whether or not one ought to sink or swim.
Following her as she leads the way, Mike finds himself in a grandiose-looking building which seems to have all the signs of a place of worship, although it doesn't appear to deliberately point to any of the substantivsit or functional religons of the world. Yet, further through another door, Mike meets a man clad in what looks like religious garb, and in seeing Mike, deliberately walks up to offer up a loving, non-judgmental embrace which Mike gratefully accepts with no small degree of resignation. It reminded me immediately of the invitation provided by Christ in the book of Mathew: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." However, after this, Mike is forcefully grabbed and shoved through a door into a dark abyss, flailing through the nothingness until acceptance has him curl up into the fetal position to enter into that space that exists before birth and that claims us after death.
I came to interpret this as Dickinson's pessimistic outlook on life, the priestly figure coming to represent the false reassurance of religion, which serves as the remaining outlet for those who have nothing left to give or lose. It is a reassurance that quickly dissipates in light of the real outcome that awaits us all, an abyss of nothingness that awakens us to the reality that there is no divine meaning to our suffering, and no hope at the end of our struggle and strife. While I do not agree with this world-picture, I did find it to be a more satisfying, original route to what I felt would've been two obvious alternatives: the declarative spirit to turn things around once more, or the resignation and acceptance into the realm of the free-roaming vagabond.
Urchin is a film that feels brutally honest and is intelligent and creative in its ability to show us the fleeting nature of life and those who suffer through it with us. While the pessimistic lens is one means of interpreting the film, and life as a whole, there remains the important need to still embrace the moments of hope and happiness, and continue to struggle along despite the abyss that bids us rest. Albert Camus would be proud.
