Directed by Benjamin Ree
Featuring Karl Bertil-Nordlan and Barbora Kysilkova
Running time: 1 hour and 42 minutes

by Zoe Crombie

‘this is destructive’

I think it's fair to say that the most engaging, memorable documentaries follow stories that are stranger than fiction. This has been demonstrated recently with Tiger King, a show that enjoyed runaway success almost entirely because of the bizarreness of the subject matter, given that the filmmaking itself wasn’t anything outlandish or innovative for the genre. In contrast, though The Painter and The Thief has a similarly surprising story, its low-key, naturalistic approach transforms it from a record of a strange situation to a portrait of two individuals able to form a mutual understanding from a situation that could have created division.

Much like Benjamin Ree, the director himself, you assume in the first five minutes of the film that you’ll be witnessing the aftermath of a heist in the form of a true crime analysis. Instead, what unfolds goes against the conventions of most other documentaries of this kind: rather than the painter (Barbora) and the thief (Karl-Bertil) being placed into opposition, they break through the boundary of the situation and pursue an unlikely friendship. Of course, relationships of any kind aren’t always smooth, and this results in the story often feeling divided between these two leads, particularly when Bertil’s erratic tendencies and heroin addiction lead him down paths of social isolation. But even when separated, the two are clearly kindred spirits, encapsulated by their mutual appreciation of art, which at one particularly moving point brings Bertil to tears in the company of Barbora, a woman he barely knows.

The Painter and The Thief’s biggest strength lies in its structure, which segments the pair’s unusual relationship in a way that humanises and complicates popular ideas of criminality and privilege. After we’ve spent some time from Barbora’s perspective, trying to understand and investigate Bertil’s motives, we hear Bertil in voiceover commenting on his status as the object of her view, noting that she doesn’t know he ‘can see her very well’ too. This marks a significant shift in the gaze, changing from stable victim to turbulent criminal, and in doing so rightfully dismantling the unconscious judgements you may have made towards the latter. This is especially interesting when Bertil notes Barbora’s obsession with death, implied to be a part of her interest in self-destructive habits – heroin may be more taboo, but watching Barbora smoke throughout the film reveals an internal pain that mirrors Bertil’s more explicit struggles.

Though the vast majority of documentaries form their subject matter into some kind of traditional narrative form, I found that The Painter and The Thief took this further in its aesthetic, sometimes to a fault. At points, it was hard to remember that what you were seeing wasn’t entirely a work of fiction, but a brief glimpse of two lives – without the film actively prompting this wider awareness, it became easy to lose your critical eye and forget that the lives of these individuals goes beyond the 106 minutes you’re watching. Though Ree implores you throughout to draw comparisons between the two people at the film’s core, I feel that this sometimes dimmed the richness of their individual experiences and the serendipity of their friendship. The unexplored depths of the leads are clearly signposted throughout, and it feels unreasonable to expect a full investigation of both Barbora and Bertil, but the knowledge that there’s so much more than meets the eye sometimes leaves you wanting more.

The greatest piece of art here is not necessarily the documentary itself, but the painting it chooses to open with the creation of: Barbora’s masterpiece ‘Swan Song’. Focusing down into depths of a reed bed lies a dead swan, crumpled and alone on the fringe of the water presumably nearby. In addition to being a straightforwardly morbid image, this depiction of destruction on the edge of what could have been the topic of the oil painting suggests Barbora’s identification with those who exist unacknowledged on the margins of society. This sets the tone for the rest of the film beautifully, beginning with a paradox of death being brought to life that reflects the contradictory, incredible relationship between two endlessly complex individuals.

The Painter and The Thief is a film that seeks to break down its own title by proving that the two central figures are far more than their reductive titles, and in this goal, it succeeds. The thief is defined by his appreciation for art, his sensitivity, and his willingness to fall in love; the painter lives on the poverty line, drawn to self-destructive situations that indirectly lead her to revenue by manifesting as her art. While some kind of acknowledgement of the manipulative nature of documentary filmmaking would have been beneficial, this is an intriguing watch, and a brilliant record of humanism.

Go to Neon’s page to see how you can stream it via your local theater’s virtual cinema today.