As I mentioned in my review of The Chronology of Water, when comparing the three directorial debuts by Hollywood actors in this year’s Cannes lineup, I initially felt Kristen Stewart’s film seemed the most fitting for the festival. I haven’t seen Scarlett Johansson’s Eleanor the Great yet, but with Urchin, I stand corrected. Harris Dickinson’s debut feels far more like something that would premiere at TIFF: a compelling but ultimately familiar portrait of a homeless man caught in a cycle of self-destruction and self-sabotage. It’s full of good intentions, but often feels a bit out of its depth and occasionally artificial. A predictable exploration of how society shuts its doors on those who’ve fallen too far—without offering them a real way back.
The film works best when introducing its main character, Mike, played with real vulnerability and a kind of childlike longing by Frank Dillane. I especially liked how the film holds back on revealing the character’s deeper impulses, letting them unfold gradually and culminating in a brief flashback that reframes an earlier scene, offering a different perspective on everything we’ve seen so far. As Mike is released from prison, you can sense his effort—he wants to do better—but lacks the tools. And even when support systems appear (a hostel, a job, the beginnings of new relationships), they always feel temporary, conditional. You can almost hear the ticking clock. From there, the story hits all the expected beats. Dickinson does what he can to elevate the material, but there’s only so much to be done with a script that feels so mapped out.
To his credit, the direction is Urchin’s strongest asset—alongside Dillane’s remarkable performance. Dickinson shows promise behind the camera, using the score effectively and resisting the pull of cheap sentimentality. He often chooses to observe rather than dictate, letting scenes breathe, and that restraint gives the film moments of quiet weight. It’s a confident first outing. That said, he gives himself a small role that doesn’t quite mesh with the rest of the more raw, naturalistic cast—becoming especially distracting in his final appearance.
The script, unfortunately, is the weaker link. It leans heavily on familiar devices—offering its characters short-lived bursts of hope (karaoke!) before predictably pulling them away. The fall is inevitable and a bit too telegraphed. As the film leans into more introspective, surreal moments—dreamlike flourishes meant to express inner turmoil—it doesn’t have quite enough to say to justify the stylistic shift. There’s heart here, and certainly ambition, but while Dickinson shows promise as a director, Urchin never feels as raw or revelatory as it wants to be. He’s no Sean Baker—but it’s a solid first step.