An episodic magnum opus that comes across an extreme fable of bestiality is this adaptation of a controversial Jerz Kosinski memoir form 1965 (perhaps more lifted from Roman Polanski’s life than his).
The Painted Bird is a grim, protracted experience that if completely viewed may have a silver of peace and humanity to offer after all the depravity which preceded it.
Being in Vaclav Marhoul’s hands it’s sensitively depicted with stunning monochromatic images from lensing pro Vladimir Smutny. A mostly interslavic language is used with bits of German, Czech and Russian heard.
Following a sad, lonely protagonist who gradually hardens with resolve in unspecified Eastern Europe who is under 10 years old during the latter part of World War II is barbaric artistry with an uncompromising view of humanity.
The boy goes through a lot starting with the loss of parents, his dog, his aunt as by the conclusion much will have been doled out about him, including his name.
It must be said that young thespian Petr Kotiar bravely puts the character out their to endure a kind of suffering that is unsettling to relate. Even if the lad will become a tad despicable to himself after a wrenching sequence against those fleeing a ride to a certain death.
What the lad witnesses too is unimaginable at times through lifted from Kosinski as Udo Kier figures in as the nastiest of millers who uses a spoon viciously against a man with a wandering eye.