All outstanding works of world cinema are divided into two categories. The first includes films, technically and compositionally flawless, caressed by numerous jury of film festivals and an intellectual spectator and carrying, of course, a certain idea (even if it is three times postmodern!!), catching the viewer. They stand the test of time, and the most significant of them are forever woven into the socio-cultural life of society, as happened, for example, with the Matrix Wachowski.
Films of the second category can suffer from the quality of the technical side, for example, the film can be shot with a home camera, and may not suffer from this ailment, in general, this is not their main distinguishing feature. The apparent indifference to the degree of entertainment of the film is explained simply - the authors are betting on the content. The main difference between the films of these two categories is that their messages and ideas are in different planes. In the second case, the philosophy of the film invades the taboo areas of our existence, those areas that the average viewer tries to ignore in his positive worldview. The authors of such films work for a certain target audience - their not so numerous viewer finds the courage, together with the heroes of the film, to go to unexplored territory and see, for example, in "Finger Boy" a serious work of art with a deep philosophical line. These films can consist so much of content, of a message that when discussing them, you completely forget about genre, technical or compositional characteristics, because you are full of feelings (which, however, should be the case, since the main function of a work of art is to arouse feelings in a person), and when trying to review, you encounter a problem: you begin to talk about the personal. It's not a review defect. This is a victory for the authors.
That's right. "Boy with a finger" belongs to the second category of films.
I’ve been looking for this animated film for over 12 years, and it shocked me. The first acquaintance with the film (then it was called “The Secret Adventures of the Finger Boy”, was shown on TV in the distant 90s) happened when I was 18 or 19 years old. He was painfully consonant with my then worldview, in which pity for all things prevailed. There is a lot of physical ugliness in the film, and the authors ingeniously cultivate in the viewer a sense of love for the characters. This is a kind of pure experiment, the essence of which boils down to the disclosure of this concept, that is, “love”, by its origin in artificial, strictly limited by the screen and the viewer conditions. The essence of the concept is revealed as transparently as possible - it becomes obvious to all of us, the audience, that no ugliness can reduce the feeling qualitatively or quantitatively. Perhaps ugliness is even a catalyst for feeling. Because true love always has its root - no, not pity, but compassion.
These strange, subdued, traumatized creatures are perceived as native, close creatures. The viewer has a subconscious desire to save them, clumsy, trusting inhabitants of the crooked, wrong world. But the viewer, of course, can't do anything - he's on the other side of the screen. And the baby walks through his terrible world, looks at everything with his eyes wide open. He suffers - loses loved ones, tries to find them, but loses them forever, when it seemed to find him. He suffers in silence, taking all this unbearable happening for granted, as an integral part of his world, through which he goes nowhere, gaining and losing fellow travelers, the same doomed freaks who show human feelings.
A new encounter with a film that shocked me once, of course, again knocked me off track - everything that had been experienced 12 years ago, came with the same force. But something new has emerged. There was a feeling that this painted world with crowds of insects, dirt, absurdity, which is not absurd - this is our world, the one in which we all live. It reflects many characteristic moments of our existence, displayed surprisingly realistically. And all of Tom Thumb Boy's losses are familiar to us, and his slouching over the dirty Looking Glass is also familiar. Like some originally given, genetic, or what, knowledge that something is wrong here, that all this is some low-quality copy of the ideal original. The presence of defects does not oblige them to be eliminated, because they are the flesh of the system, they are the system. Defects within us are the same bricks of the universe. However, the author here is a utopian, he paints us with the hope that “all will be well in the end.”
In life, as in the film, there is a plot. And he's distracting. It distracts from thoughts of meaninglessness, hopelessness, illogicality of being. Tom Tamb, like all of us, appeared in his dirty Looking Glass in order to fulfill a certain mission, and, again, like all of us, to fulfill it without first knowing what it is. And it's possible that Tom Tamba's mission (as well as ours?) has no value. It's a "training assignment." Nothing serious. However, someone manages to do something really serious - it's like a children's designer "Lego" to build a real house or children's colored crayons to draw on the asphalt a real masterpiece. His Looking Glass was a child’s plaything, a stage on the road to something real – who knows, perhaps we are all in the same position as him.
It’s a film about the possibility of paradise, a fairy tale that says “then everything will be fine.” I don't believe in heaven. But assuming that things will get better is one of the most effective ways to survive. We got not the safest toy, but it is necessary, it is simply necessary that we have confidence in a successful outcome. This is our physiology.
Thank you to Mr. Bortswick for an outstanding film.