The Boy Who Walked Barefoot

Absent-minded, warming his feet in the manure. Clucking at the chickens as he scatters their feed. Almost without dialogue, but saying more for it, this is a powerful film. The curl of toe on concrete, the set of stance and sensation. Everything in gesture, imagined or not. Those polished boots bear not a piece of pity, unblemished by kindness.

The horses say more than the humans, in every whinny wisdom. Not just of their character but those who interact with them. Ruled not by pathetic fallacy but the judgement of equines. Hippocracy if you will.

You can feel the sunshine in Gracjana Piechula's film, not the direct burning from the sky but the secondhand soothing of the growing grass. Where wood is worn by hand and foot and soaks up the summer in its stain. The baled hay bleached under blue skies and the shadows' cold edges.

The performances are striking. Zbyszek (Jasiek Grzadziela) has a name whose roots mean "to dispel", "anger". Wojciech (Jan Naturski) has a name whose roots mean "war", "joy". They are contrasting, obviously, but so too are human natures. The girl who attracts their affections, Kinga (Dominkika Majewska), has a name meaning "brave". In their conflict over her so many others, internal, external, eternal. Across a dozen minutes each creates a sense of character through touch, tone, temperament. Across handshakes and heartbeats and dressage and undressing understandings are created.

There are kindnesses within the film, but stark ones. The revelation and transformation are compelling, but to say more would be to betray a confidence the film deserves to have kept. Suffice to say that the film supports the drawing of the wrong conclusions, and attendant tragedy, with a surefootedness that belies the relative inexperience of those behind and before the camera.

The use of sound is sparing but the rain and thunder at the end are telling. Rooted in Grzadziela's physical performance, this is a tremendous piece, one that can be felt, and should be sought out.