The concept of “womb fantasy” was first introduced by psychoanalyst Otto Rank just over a hundred years ago. In his book The Trauma of Birth, Rank proposes that we spend our lives governed by the unconscious desire to return to the first and fullest state of safety we’ll ever experience: the safety of the womb. Several films have explored the lingering effects of the trauma of being born — how we deal with existence and how we try to make sense of it. While experiencing Urchin for the first time, Mike Leigh’s Naked (1993) comes to mind. But instead of Leigh’s confrontational Johnny, Urchin’s Mike doesn’t demand big answers. Harris Dickinson’s impressive directorial debut instead presents an uncomfortable alternative: a protagonist who can’t face life, who pleads for exemption from its consequences, and craves a return to a womb-like safety. As ambitious as his theme is, Dickinson’s execution is grounded and confident, and a testament to his talent also behind the camera.
We meet Mike as he roams the streets of London while chasing after strangers for spare change. The way he’s introduced – asking others to provide for him what he can’t provide for himself – is no accident, but the way we’ll grow to know him. Mike’s daily routine takes a detour when he violently assaults a compassionate citizen. He lands in prison, and we soon discover that this isn’t his first stint in jail. It is, however, a first hint at what we’re really seeing: a man stuck in a vicious cycle of his own making. The post-incarceration drill of finding temporary residence and a permanent job, aided by his assigned social worker, is also familiar. Mike’s adoptive parents aren’t in the picture, but at least he’s sober for now. But Urchin doesn’t aim to comment on the British prison system or the flaws of criminal reintegration. Instead, it explores the mental and emotional damage that prevents a person from breaking free of destructive habits, even when tides turn in their favor.
Presenting an audience with a character like Mike is a challenge, but Dickinson’s writing and Frank Dillane’s touching breakout performance manage to generate genuine empathy for their protagonist. Mike’s moments of violence, of drug abuse, of selfishness, are counterbalanced by instances of hope and warmth that show the remaining humanity in a man hardened by his circumstances. When Mike starts working at a dingy hotel’s restaurant, his co-worker Ramona (Karyna Khymchuk) deadpans that they’re in one of the best hotels in London. Mike is left with a smile on his face, only for us to see. Dickinson is brilliant at magnifying these small, sweet moments by relying on a supporting cast of relatively unknown faces that bring naturalism to the story, and by adding a sense of humor that fits just perfectly with his restrained tone. Tragically, while this humanity lets Mike enjoy moments of solace, it also keeps him tethered to his pain, unable to truly begin again.
Urchin is visually rich and doesn’t shy away from resorting to symbolism to reveal its message. Even if some of the visuals might be a bit on the nose at times, they always tie into the story and match the film’s intention to explore its main character’s interiority. The karaoke scene is maybe one of the film’s most moving instances of visual storytelling. Enveloped by a pink light with one of his female friends on each side singing to him, we see Mike exactly where he’s always wanted to be: safe, warm, mothered. Visual motifs are also used to reflect the deterioration of Mike’s emotional state. While things are going well, Mike sports a pair of snakeskin loafers he was able to thrift with his hard-earned money. However, after he once again loses it all, he watches as a snake of the same color as his shoes strangles and devours a mouse. Were Mike’s shoes just a temporary disguise? Is he actually the mouse? His terrified facial expression seems to say yes to both.
Mike can’t help but see himself as prey consumed by his past. His pain eventually catches up with him and pulls the rug out from under his feet. He loses his job, his home, his friends. We watch him try to start over and lose it all — not once but twice. Even when warned of an avalanche coming at him and asked why he won’t move, he can’t seem to. For Mike, saving himself hurts even more than destroying himself. To save himself would mean accepting that no one loved him enough to do it for him. It would confirm that his wounds of abandonment are deserved. So after failing to persuade the prison system, his social worker, his friends, his romantic interest, and even a shopkeeper to catch him as he falls, he just falls. And in that final fall, he finds – if nothing else – the safety he’s been aching for.
Rating: 4.5/5
In someone else’s hands, the same story could wallow in sorrow or become unnecessarily graphic, but Dickinson directs with rare empathy and elegance, maintaining control of the subtle yet emotional tone from beginning to end – and what a confident end it is. Urchin is not an easy watch. While it might leave some needing a hug, for others, it might just be the hug they didn’t know they needed.
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