Many directorial debuts often strive for dramatic impact, with newcomers frequently investing extensively, convinced that grand statements are the most effective way to capture an audience. However, Urchin, by the English actor (not yet 30) Harris Dickinson—who has delivered compelling and enchanting performances in films like Eliza Hittman’s Brooklyn teen drama Beach Rats and Halina Reijn’s feverish sex fantasy —takes a quieter, more understated path. This seemingly simple narrative about an addict struggling to maintain his existence on London’s streets gains its power from what it omits: there are no major disclosures, no harrowing rock-bottom experiences or overdose scenes. Instead, the audience is left to contend with the addict and his emotional state—or, at times, his apparent absence of feeling. Lacking significant background on his origins or how his addiction began, viewers are immersed directly into his current reality. It is a bleak and bewildering state of being.
Mike, portrayed with raw authenticity by Frank Dillane (son of actor Stephen Dillane), is the central figure, first appearing as he regains consciousness after collapsing on a London street. His hair is spiky and unkempt; his skin appears grimy. The film’s title, Urchin, is apt: Mike’s physical state and the impoverished street existence he’s confined to evoke a Dickensian atmosphere. He considers this his utmost possibility; his life is entirely dictated by the present, without any thought of potential alteration.
Mike retrieves a backpack from its concealed spot behind a dumpster; subsequently, he is shown meticulously arranging cardboard sheets to fashion a makeshift sleeping area. He solicits money on the street, his demeanor shifting rapidly from a frown to a dazzling smile. Nathan, another addict portrayed by Dickinson, also seeking a dose, pilfers Mike’s money, leading to a physical altercation. A passerby intervenes to halt the fight and offers Mike food. Mike accepts with appreciation—only to assault his benefactor and abscond with the man’s timepiece.
Mike is apprehended and incarcerated. Upon his release, now clean, he appears keen to reform his life. He relocates to a hostel. He purchases a shirt and some garish reptile-skin loafers from a second-hand store which, strangely, suit him—hinting at a latent rock-star allure. He secures employment as a chef in a dilapidated hotel; his colleagues quickly develop an affection for him, though this position proves temporary. He finds an inferior alternative job and encounters a free-spirited young woman (Megan Northam) who is also drawn to him. His appeal is evident. In his sober moments, Mike is vulnerable and observant, evoking a sense of protectiveness. Yet, he can also be ruthlessly and self-centeredly manipulative. Whether this is his inherent character or a manifestation of his addiction remains ambiguous.
Urchin stands as a confident yet understated cinematic endeavor. Dickinson, also the scriptwriter, avoids dwelling on the grimmer facets of addiction, instead interweaving ethereal, dreamlike elements and concluding the film with deliberate ambiguity. As addiction lacks a definitive conclusion—hence the AA adage ‘One day at a time’—Urchin functions as a perpetual middle, offering a slice of life rather than a tale of salvation. Nevertheless, both Dickinson and Dillane ensure Mike is portrayed as an individual, not merely an issue. Even when on the verge of relapse, Mike moves with a dancer’s grace, seemingly comfortable in his own physicality. His internal turmoil, rather, is what provokes both his suffering and his compulsion to alleviate it. Urchin permits us to accompany him for a period. Beyond that, however, for the duration of his unceasing struggle, he faces it alone. A sense of relief at his departure is mingled with regret.
