A boy has been sent to live with his rustic aunt in the hopes that he will be protected from the war in the countryside. Unfortunately, her untimely death sets in motion a series of disasters that will brutalize his body and spirit. Showing no mercy, villagers violently shun him, in the ignorant superstitious belief that he is a cursed harbinger of misfortune. In some ways, this always turns out to be true, but their moral failings directly contribute to each tragic episode.
From time to time, the boy finds shelter with a sympathetic adult, like Lekh, the bird-keeper, who provides the title, by releasing a bird with painted wings, knowing full well the wild flock would tear it apart. Numerous times, he escapes likely deportation to concentration camps, most notably thanks to the intercession of a kindly (but dying) Catholic priest. He also finds an unlikely protector in the Red Army (making the Communist regime’s antipathy even more perverse). Yet, each encounter inevitably leads to fresh terror.
This is a tough film that initially shocks viewers and soon exhausts them. Nevertheless, there is a purpose behind the horrors and humiliations rained down on the Boy. It is like witnessing literal Hell on Earth, which by definition, never seems to end. Indeed, viewers will feel like they too are staggering through a hostile Hellscape, which is quite an accomplishment for Marhoul.
Stylistically, the dark, immersive intimacy of Painted Bird shares a kinship with the films of Andrei Tarkovsky, Aleksey German and Bela Tarr, but it has a stronger narrative drive. Indeed, it is one horrendous darned thing after another for the Boy. It compares very directly with Elem Klimov’s Come and See, but it makes the Soviet epic look positively upbeat. This is high auteurist cinema that makes no concessions to popular taste, but Vladimir Smutny’s black-and-white cinematography is undeniably arresting.
