“Ultimately, the quality that makes Hen so endearing is that it is entirely sincere.”

One has to wonder when making Au hasard Balthazar over half a century ago whether Robert Bresson thought he would be pioneering a microgenre that has been revisited quite sparingly, but spawned some of the most fascinating works of their respective eras. His timeless tale of existence told from the perspective of a donkey has been the inspiration for filmmakers like Todd Solondz and Jerzy Skolimowski (amongst others), building stories around animals navigating hostile environments in search of not only a physical home, but a sense of belonging. The most recent entry into this set of films comes from György Pálfi. He uses this as the inspiration for Hen, in which we find ourselves in a working-class town in Greece. Our protagonist is a Leghorn hen who manages to narrowly escape becoming dinner and sets off on a cross-country trip, seeking sanctuary from the predators (both human and otherwise) who view her as a perfect addition to their next meal. Eventually she finds a temporary home, but soon becomes a witness to some questionable behaviour, a silent observer to some morally ambiguous situations. A charming, heartfelt and often funny film that explores its relatively strange premise to the point where it actually becomes unironically moving, Hen makes the most of a one-dimensional idea, being a sweet, enjoyable drama that proves some of the most human stories are those in which we are nothing but supporting players.

There are reasons why many viewers will refuse to watch a film if they know an animal is going to die or be hurt in any way – we can handle human suffering, but that of other species seems to cross a boundary. It’s a tricky subject to explore, especially when working with a premise built around showing the world through the eyes of an animal. We can’t ever truly understand what goes on inside their head, but Hen makes quite a strong case for the titular character, a young hen simply trying to survive in a world where she’s viewed as an amusing pest at most, or as a delicious source of food at worst. Hen is not really about the trials and tribulations of a chicken, but rather the mechanical, soulless existence that humans have allowed to take over our lives, in which everything around us needs to be viewed as a commodity or to have a particular purpose to take up space. The use of a chicken as the central motif highlights this concept – they are often viewed as expendable (highlighted by the opening scene showing the chicken sexing process, in a casual, matter-of-fact manner). We don’t expect to be so moved by such a story, but the director works to underline just how complex these ideas are, finding the humanity in the picaresque journey of a creature not often given much attention.

While this amusing concept will likely be enough to pique the viewer’s curiosity, holding our attention is a different matter entirely. Pálfi is aware that he is working with an idea that is going to be viewed as trivial at most, so he puts in a lot of work not only on the narrative progression, but on the execution of the story. Hen is genuinely well-made – it’s not an elaborate affair, and the filmmaking itself is simple and direct, never wasting a moment yet never too focused on the ridiculousness of its premise. It finds the right balance of emotions, delightfully funny in some parts, deeply sad in others. It plays out like a conventional story of survival, with a protagonist who encounters a range of obstacles, using a combination of resourcefulness and luck to make sure that she sees another day. A large part of the film’s success comes from the fact that the director and everyone involved clearly take it seriously; it never just becomes an exercise in seeing how far they can stretch a quirky concept. Instead it functions as a fully-formed, engaging narrative with genuine tension and stakes, drawing the viewer in and ensuring that every emotion is authentic and meaningful. It does help that the director manages to do the impossible by actually extracting a good performance from a chicken (or rather being selective enough in how he frames the film to give the illusion of a performance), which proves that animals are sometimes capable of connecting with us on screen in much the same way as their human counterparts.

Ultimately, the quality that makes Hen so endearing is that it is entirely sincere. The film believes wholeheartedly in its premise and doesn’t just position itself as a novelty, despite being very self-aware of the premise’s silliness. It may not reinvent the genre or do anything particularly daring, but it proves to be very entertaining and emotionally satisfying. The film doesn’t feel compelled to justify its existence by layering on more intricate commentary or reasoning – it simply presents itself as a quiet, moving drama about a chicken searching for a home. The director is never trying to convey a sense of self-seriousness or force the viewer to feel anything inauthentic (and if anything, his refusal to go for the low-hanging fruit by layering on heavy-handed emotions is admirable – there aren’t any moments where we feel like he is just playing on our sympathies without reason). A swift, compelling film that delivers its message directly and with nothing but the most steadfast sincerity, it delivers exactly what it promises, and not much more. Yet we still find ourselves absolutely enthralled by this film and its willingness to take a simple premise and turn it into something poetic without needing to be too complex. Sometimes, all we need to distract from a busy routine is the story of a chicken on an adventure, which this lovable little film is more than happy to provide.