The Painted Bird – first look review | Little White Lies

Festivals

The Paint­ed Bird – first look review

03 Sep 2019

Words by David Jenkins

A young boy gazes intently at a large black crow perched nearby on the ground in this moody black and white photograph.
A young boy gazes intently at a large black crow perched nearby on the ground in this moody black and white photograph.
Mass walk-outs greet­ed this gru­elling but bril­liant lit­er­ary epic about a young lad’s jour­ney through hell.

This pun­ish­ing but undoubt­ed­ly bril­liant mono­chrome epic opens on a trav­el­ling shot of a small boy, run­ning as fast as his legs will car­ry him, while clutch­ing his fluffy, white pet fer­ret. Ini­tial­ly, we don’t know where he’s run­ning to, or who he’s run­ning from. He is barged from his flanks by anoth­er kid and the fer­ret is snatched off of him.

While pinned to the floor, he is able to wit­ness his fur­ry friend being cov­ered in some kind of flam­ma­ble liq­uid and then burned alive, its white fur quick­ly black­ened by the lap­ping flames. It squeals in agony before flop­ping over to accept its trag­ic fate. For the unnamed boy, played with a bat­tle-hard­ened pok­er face through­out by Petr Kotlár, this is only the begin­ning of a world of intense, diverse and occa­sion­al­ly sur­re­al suf­fer­ing. But for him, death is not an option.

It is a mes­meris­ing trav­el­ogue film by Czech direc­tor Václav Marhoul, based on the famous 1965 nov­el by Jerzy Kosińs­ki, which tells of a young Jew­ish boy and his hor­rif­ic life in the wilds of east­ern Europe dur­ing World War Two. It’s bro­ken up into a num­ber of episodes, each named after the per­son that briefly takes the child under his or her wing.

It’s a por­trait of a bro­ken con­ti­nent, hous­ing a pop­u­lous unteth­ered from basic moral­i­ty and social order. Some appear to be trapped in anoth­er era alto­geth­er. The notion of extend­ing empa­thy towards a pure, vir­tu­ous child is com­plete­ly lost on these char­ac­ters, a rogues gallery of depres­sives and eccentrics, pae­dophiles and nympho­ma­ni­acs, all of whom quick­ly chose to blame all their world­ly tor­ments on this doe-eyed visitor.

Marhoul paints this grotesque fres­co with bare­ly a hint of wider con­text and refus­es to chan­nel his anger towards sys­tems, gov­ern­ments or the tides of his­to­ry. He remains ful­ly detached from the boy’s cru­el des­tiny, just fol­low­ing the trail and watch­ing on with a cold­ly objec­tive gaze. Here, evil is always a per­son­al choice – a sim­ple human deci­sion dic­tat­ed by cir­cum­stance, but also by the dou­ble-edged sword of iso­la­tion. A lot of these mon­sters are sim­ply stir crazy, trapped in their tum­ble­down huts and wait­ing for some kind of sweet release. Their seething malev­o­lence is nev­er dri­ven by some high­er edict, but can some­times be under­stood as the result of geopo­lit­i­cal chaos and a world too busy with the mat­ter of tear­ing itself apart.

It’s tough to amply describe the film’s relent­less­ly bru­tal plea­sures, but those who have seen films like Andrei Tarkovsky’s Ivan’s Child­hood, Robert Bresson’s Mouchette or Elem Klimov’s Come and See (whose star, Alek­sei Kravchenko, crops up here) might have an idea of the grim ter­rain we’re on here. Like those great works, it’s an episod­ic tale of a holy inno­cent who drifts through life and becomes the focus of all the world’s ills.

Here, our unsmil­ing hero takes beat­ing after beat­ing, humil­i­a­tion after humil­i­a­tion, nev­er laugh­ing, nev­er cry­ing, nev­er com­plain­ing, just pick­ing him­self up and see­ing what the next road brings. Yet he’s not against using his nat­ur­al wiles to foil some of the peo­ple who are par­tic­u­lar­ly nasty towards him. By the end of the film, he has become bat­tle-hard­ened and fear­less – though the dark real­i­ty is, he’ll like­ly grow up to become one of the mon­sters who served to shape his dis­mal for­ma­tive years.

You might like