by Oscar O’Sullivan

Where do we draw the line when it comes to that rare and elusive genre of ‘Magical Realism’? Is there some defined point that should never be crossed, lest the film topple over into pure fantasy? Is the realism the more vital ingredient? How those elements are weighted surely comes down to personal taste, so I’m not surprised that the few reactions I’ve garnered to Andrea Arnold’s new feature Bird are most divided over a single moment – a late-game revelation that does see the film take flight and briefly abandon the grounded path it otherwise follows. In the moment it’s jarring, not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s predictable, an obvious literalisation of something that was otherwise gracefully unsaid. For some, this decision could unseat the whole film. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure what to make of it in the moment, still amn’t altogether sure how to parse it out a day later. What I do know is that it wasn’t enough to undo the spell that the film had me under, a spell that wove it’s magic despite an overemphasis on that one curious syllable.

Bird is the story of Bailey (Nykiya Adams), a young teenager living in poverty in England. The film is warm and humanist in the way it treats the characters, but never romanticises the circumstances they live in. Bailey’s home is a ramshackle graffiti-covered flat (I got the impression her family were squatting there), they’ve got no money, no mention of school or work. Her friends are a gang of teenage boys who go around beating and intimidating local abusers – all very ordinary behaviour, at least it is to them. There’s an undercurrent of gender identity to the film, as Bailey consistently tries to align herself with the boys and rejects the feminine influences in her life. She cuts her hair short, dresses androgynously and furiously refuses to play the part of bridesmaid in her dad’s upcoming wedding. Her father Bug (a mercurial Barry Keoghan) is a tattooed, e-scooter riding clown who spends much of the film obsessed with a drug-producing toad that he claims will solve all his financial woes. He’s childish and self-centred, berating his kids for getting in the way of his big day and giving Bailey hell for breaking his rules despite showing a complete disinterest in her usual comings-and-goings. Yet he isn’t an unsympathetic figure, merely a helpless one. A teenage father who took responsibility for his kids, there’s no hint of resentment from him over his lot in life. If anything, his overt happiness alienates Bailey even further, as she is in the midst of an identity crisis brought on by various changes. It’s at the beginning of this minor breakdown that she meets the film’s titular (and most inscrutable) character – Bird.

Bird is an immediately unbalancing presence, a stranger who happens upon Bailey in the middle of a field and is overly warm and familiar. Actor Franz Rogowski is a bizarre physical presence with a distinct face – he often looks like something out of a Renaissance painting, holding himself in strange positions and perching atop walls and railings whenever he can. He also speaks in his natural German accent, further alienating him from the lower-class British environment of the film despite ostensibly being a local returned from a long absence. He is a Fae and otherworldly presence who gently nudges Bailey’s thinking into a subconscious, almost mythical level. She is fascinated by his behaviour and begins to see him in unusual places, to the point that she questions whether or not he’s real. She also becomes more aware of the constant presence of birds around her, with her growing perception of subtle strangeness in the world pushing her towards decisive actions. Throughout it all, in spite of how utterly bizarre he is, Bird never becomes a threatening or unwelcome visitor. It’s kind of a miraculous performance when you break it down, leaning all the way into inhuman absurdity without ever losing a fundamental kindness.

The anarchic, freewheeling vibe of the story is captured and enhanced by the stunning handheld cinematography, courtesy of Irish DP Robbie Ryan. Light dances across the frame as we weave in and out of the film’s world, a world in constant motion as the characters try to stay ahead of whatever is behind them and keep up with the things they want up ahead. Also in the mix visually is the sparse but motivated use of phone footage. Bailey is shown to process the world through her phone, constantly taking videos and playing them back for herself later on a ceiling projector. We are invited occasionally into that perspective as the 1.66:1 aspect ratio narrows further into the familiar vertical box of the phone video, giving us direct access to the world as seen by Bailey – narrow and contained, but often beautiful.

Bird doesn’t have some high-minded social lesson to impart, no illusions of making a grand and sweeping statement – despite its very real and vividly drawn setting, it’s more akin to a fairy tale than anything. Perhaps a parable would be the best comparison, a simple moral fable told using recognisable real-world pieces but still effective divorced from that context. And unlike a parable, you’re not meant to walk away with some easy saying or idea to sum the whole thing up – you’re meant to walk away with a feeling. For me, that feeling was warmth, a reassurance that the goodness in people outweighs the bad. That goodness shines out from this film in every frame, even when it dips into darker scenarios. A fun, gripping, infectiously human story. 10/10.