When he is arrested for robbing a watch, homeless Mike (Frank Dillane) decides to reform himself. Getting a job in a kitchen, the young man spends evenings in a hostel listening to podcasts on meditation. He makes two friends, and seems happy spending evenings singing karaoke free from alcohol. Everything goes smoothly, until he meets up with the man he robbed, which causes him to spiral downward into his personal hell.

As narration, Urchin is comparable to Quadrophenia (Franc Roddam, 1979), as both stories deal with handsome, prosperous young men who make questionable life choices that leads to their literal and metaphorical downfall.Make no mistake, Mike is a very likeable man, something his employer in the restaurant tells him before burdening the former convict with customer complaints. A recovering addict, the protagonist searches for happiness in other terrains: work, singing, romance. But the invisible black dog which has plagued him since school arises, causing him to return to the streets he spent half a decade sleeping on.

Dillane immerses himself in the role. Gaunt, Mike still maintains a charm, and twinkle in his eye. He’s never ashamed to take on any job, even resorting to binning. There, he meets a Frenchwoman who regails him with tales of bohemia. Returning to her campervan, they make love, where he is embarrassed by his performance as a lover. “Five minutes,” Mike assures her will be the next record.

It’s these little details, from his sexual exuberance to the tears he cries when he remembers the victims face, that makes Mike such a relatable hero. It’s a triumph of realism, He cries over a love that meant more to him than it did the paramour. Male fragility weaves into the world, but nobody wants to harm Mike anymore than they have to.

A customer personally apologises when they point out that their steak is undercooked, just as his co-workers smile when Mike guillibly asks his superiors about possible lunchhours. Everyone, even the man he mugs, sees the goodness in the central character, but life in London pushes Mike to desperate measures, hanging around pubs in an effort to acquire some degree of comfort.

The music enters the proceedings like a bomb in certain scenes. Crushing the backdrop, the score accentuates the tension onscreen. Seated at a dance performance, Mike is confronted with the horrors of his life as a homeless person, causing the chef to race for the toilets. The nervous energy ripples from Dillane’s body, a contortion of facial movements and eye patterns.

Some of the other actors are miscast. Megan Northam never fully finds her footing as a French hippie, while Murat Erkek overplays the tough shop owner, coming off as a bit too mean as he does so. All of these characters are seen through Mike’s eyes, a person so vulnerable, electric and fiery he draws the viewer in even when others don’t. You can see his smile widen when he enters a charity shop to find a sweater that suits him nicely. For the first time in years, Mike feels like a regular part of society again.

Urchin reflects an England that is pivoting away from kindness, to place attention on the individual. What it prophesises is a worrying portrait of an island that will luxuriate in selfishness. If there is a central message at heart here is to understand the awful lives people with addictions have to face each and every day. People like Mike need compassion in order to get them through the grind, as do we all in fact.

Urchin premiered in the Un Certain Regard section of the 78th Festival de Cannes, when this piece was originally written. Also showing at the 59th edition of Karlovy Vary, and at the 73rd edition of San Sebastian. In cinemas on Friday, October 3rd. On VoD on Tuesday, January 13th