Life ain’t always empty.
Few directors capture working-class life as authentically as Andrea Arnold. Arnold is one of a very few class-conscious directors in the UK, where the industry is dominated by wealthy filmmakers who often depict working-class communities through a detached or exploitative lens. Having grown up on a council estate in Dartford, Kent—just miles from where Bird is set—she doesn’t judge or exploit her characters. Instead, she invites us into their world, immersing us into spaces mainstream cinema neglects and reminds us that beauty can be found anywhere. Her latest film, Bird, is no exception.
Twelve-year-old Bailey (Nykiyah Adams) lives in a squat in Gravesend with her dad, Bug (Barry Keoghan), and half-brother, Hunter (Jason Buda). Bug impulsively decides to marry his girlfriend after just three months and dreams of getting rich by selling psychedelic toad venom.
Bailey tags along with Hunter’s vigilante group, filming the action until the police arrive, forcing her to flee and sleep in a nearby field. The next morning, she encounters an out-of-place stranger named Bird (Franz Rogowski.) Whimsical and ethereal, Bird’s gentle nature intrigues Bailey, and she agrees to help him find his family.
Bailey’s tough environment forced her to become a caretaker from a young age. She sets out on a mission to help Bird, try to protect her young siblings from her mum’s abusive boyfriend, and help her brother with his problems.
In Arnold’s films, the setting is often a character itself, and I can confirm, having grown up just 20 minutes from Gravesend in a similar town, that it was very authentic. Every character is an accurate portrayal of people you would meet there. This is what made Bird’s character so otherworldly, having an almost mythical presence.
Bird differs from Arnold’s previous films as it ventures into magical realism via a child’s imagination and need for self-preservation and escape. Bailey sees in Bird another broken spirit trying to find his way home. He represents what the place and people around her cannot or do not allow themselves to be – soft, unguarded, free. In a world where sensitivity = weakness, he represents freedom, much like the nature she admires and films. There is commentary here on how capitalism and patriarchy disrupt our relationship with joy and nature. Despite her love for nature and animals, Bailey is disconnected from this side of herself.
The ambiguous ending will undoubtedly divide viewers, leaving some questions unanswered. A second watch helps in piecing things together, though different interpretations remain. I wish there had been more scenes between Bailey and her parents. A few of the flashbacks didn’t quite hit the mark for me. The timing of her starting her period felt a bit cliché, although it did break the hostility with her dad’s fiancée.
Bird is packed with outstanding performances. As with Arnold’s previous films, Nykiya Adams was an undiscovered talent before being cast as Bailey, yet she delivers a performance that feels effortlessly natural. Barry Keoghan is electrifying. The Saltburn (2023) actor was so drawn to the role of Bug that he dropped out of Gladiator II without even reading the script. Meanwhile, Franz Rogowski was the perfect choice for Bird – his presence simply magnetic. His eyes express so much empathy that words aren’t even necessary.
Bright reds and yellows are prominent throughout, reflecting both the energy and volatility of Bailey’s environment. In contrast, soft blues and greys emerge in the film’s quieter, more introspective moments, most notably at the beach, where Bailey experiences a rare sense of peace. Bird, dressed in earthy tones, seems to exist outside of this colour dynamic, blending into nature rather than the chaos of human life.
Burnt edges and a handheld camera draw us into Bailey’s inner world, where we see the videos she’s created projected onto her wall, and observe her filming a butterfly resting on her finger. These are her personal moments, showcasing a soul striving to find beauty amidst her surroundings. The fractured breakbeats, vinyl crackle, and wind chimes in Burial’s atmospheric music provide a warm, gentle, yet fragile emotional setting. When the scene transitions to a view of lush greenery and the music shifts to grime, the camera pulls back to reveal the television screen, a reminder of the material conditions that confine her.
Blur’s euphoric Britpop anthem ‘The Universal’ serves as Bug’s personal theme, its orchestral splendour blaring as he zips around on his electric scooter, symbolising a defiant joy. The soundtrack is enriched with voices from working-class British and Irish artists such as SV, Gemma Dunleavy, and Sleaford Mods.
Bird is further proof that Andrea Arnold is undoubtedly an auteur and one of Britain’s most important filmmakers. Her work isn’t just vital for cinema—it’s necessary. While 30% of British children are living in poverty today, the lives of working-class people remain a tiny sliver of what’s represented on screen. When they are depicted, it’s frequently with an angle of ridicule or hopelessness. Bird, similar to all of Arnold’s films, defies this narrative, presenting a genuine and profoundly human depiction of resilience, love, and brief instances of happiness.
The closing credits feature cast members and locals chanting and dancing to ‘Too real for ya?’ by Fontaine’s DC—a fitting final note. For the ruling class that refuses to acknowledge the realities they’ve created, and ensures Britain’s cinematic output remains skewed toward the privileged, apparently, it is.
9/10
