Andrea Arnold’s latest film is driven by a sense of wonder not found in a typical family drama. The story of a young girl on the verge of coming of age navigating a hostile family life in north Kent, Bird is anything but one-dimensional.

Throughout her career, Arnold has often been typecast as a social realist. Although her skills as a director shine in social realism, reducing her to that label oversimplifies her talents. Whether it’s the hazy Americana in American Honey (2016) or the documentary in Cow (2021), Arnold’s strengths lie not in any particular genre but in the sensitivity of his storytelling. Her new entry continues this exploration by delving into magical realism as she questions who we allow fantasy to apply to.

Although it is very popular in literature, magical realism has not yet found a defining identity in cinema. Pioneering literary texts, such as Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967) or Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate (1989), may be known for their fantastical events, but they are deeply rooted in the economic and political conflicts that our characters experience. It was the highly detailed and realistic settings, overrun with something too strange to be believed, that made these stories so resonant. But this quality has often been absent in many films tinged with magical realism.

Aside from Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), arguably the most successful cinematic example of the genre, magical realist films don’t seem all that interested in exploring the political tension between fantasy and reality. What began as an aesthetic belonging organically to marginal cultures is – in cinema – more generally devoid of social nuances. Films such as Birth (2004), Midnight in Paris (2011) and Birdman (2014) all neglect this aspect and instead focus on magic when it comes to character studies, usually centered around rich protagonists. As a result, magical realism, as a cinematic genre, has transformed and turned away from its literary counterpart.

These stories are no longer led by passionate characters living on the margins of society, but rather by privileged individuals experiencing emotional upheaval. Whether it’s Michael Keaton as a washed-up actor in Birdman or Nicole Kidman as a grieving housewife in Birth, these characters’ conflicts always lie in their interactions with each other- themselves and not in their environment. So while these films are often given the magical realism label, Arnold’s Bird actually shares a lot more in common with the original sentiment behind the genre.

The film follows 12-year-old Bailey (Nykiya Adams) who lives with her caring but chaotic single father Bug (Barry Keoghan) in a squat in Gravesend, north Kent. We see how her fractured home life is transformed when she meets Bird (Franz Rogowski), a mysterious stranger searching for someone from her past. Arnold paints a portrait of Bailey’s life that includes teenage gangs, hallucinogenic frogs, abusive stepfathers and magical birds.

Abandoned buildings and gray roads serve as playgrounds for the characters. For most of the film, Arnold’s almost documentary style invites us to hop on the back of Bug’s electric scooter and become part of the city, where parents nonchalantly sniff lines in front of their children, where injustice is considered something that does not happen. you “sort out” according to your own will, and where children have been left behind by the systems in place, and are therefore quickly pushed into adulthood.

But Bailey also encounters acts of kindness here, whether it’s menstrual cramp medication given by Bug’s fiancée, a favor from her half-brother’s friends, or even the sympathy of a mysterious stranger. Arnold returns to the fundamentals of magical realism: the interplay between harsh conditions and fantastical liberation. The socio-economic effects on the community in question are never explicitly stated but always persist in the characters’ interactions. These tensions illuminate the magical elements of the story. The fantastical acts not as an escape from the harsh reality that Bailey experiences, but as a direct manifestation of her desires for freedom and adventure as she faces more adult responsibilities.

The magical moments are deeply tied to the themes of nature that recur throughout the film. The peaceful moment on the field, before Bailey first meets Bird, is anticipated by a wave of winds blowing back and forth. The way Arnold enhances natural elements through sound design and cinematography integrates magic with the natural. Franz Rogowski’s masterful physiognomy throughout the film also seeks to imitate nature. We see Bird standing on the terrace of the building as he walks back and forth across the railing. The natural world not only mixes with the fantastical, but even acts as a spiritual guide or guardian angel for Bailey.

Very often in the media, the world of the British working class is portrayed as dull, urban and gray, so that Bailey’s access to nature and his magical interactions with Bird seem almost a privilege. These aspects of Bailey’s life do not fit the societal narrative assigned to him. Arnold’s subversion of these norms is refreshingly humanizing.

Arnold’s impeccable tact when telling stories about the British working class comes not from the harshness of her films, but rather from a keen interest in capturing life in all its complexities. When light and darkness coexist, reality and fantasy can also coexist. Bird reclaims magical realism for those excluded from the system, offering the marginalized a sense of liberation and wonder. Here, magic is no longer a commodity that only the privileged can enjoy.

Bird, supported by BFI The Filmmaking Fund using National Lottery money is in cinemas NOW.