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Purism

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Original title: Good Boy

2025

A Cage Where They Teach You to Be Human A modest family decides to kidnap and reform a delinquent. A shocking thriller starring Stephen Graham.

There are films you want to retell. And there are films after which you want to stay silent — and "Heel" by Jan Komasa belongs to the second kind.

The story opens almost like a genre setup: Tommy, a young troublemaker living on benders, alcohol, and impunity, wakes up in the basement of a country house — a chain around his neck and a family of strangers upstairs. The head of the household, Chris, played by Stephen Graham, speaks softly, moves gently, almost tenderly — and it's precisely this gentleness that unsettles more than any open cruelty would. Beside him is a silent wife who seems switched off from reality, and a child who is eerily normal against the backdrop of it all.

In the opening scenes, it seems we're watching another thriller about monsters hiding behind a facade of respectability. But the film is built more cleverly than that. It doesn't rush to frighten — it watches. And the longer that watching goes on, the clearer it becomes: this isn't really a story about a kidnapping. It's a story about the price of freedom.

At first, Tommy understands only the language of force — he resists, snarls, tries to escape. The film's real focus is his psychological unraveling. In the basement, his street bravado turns out to be utterly useless. But the family's methodical, almost ritual work on him does its job, and gradually the line between "pretending" and "genuinely changing" begins to blur — for him no less than for the viewer. This, perhaps, is the film's true nerve: it refuses an easy answer, holding the audience in the same suspended uncertainty its protagonist lives in. It's all shot beautifully — the atmosphere is thick, almost viscous, and the house itself is filmed as though it were a character in its own right: cramped, warm, and claustrophobic all at once.

Critics have compared the film to "A Clockwork Orange" — an understandable comparison, though one that feels slightly reductive: where Kubrick offered an icy satire of the very idea of reform, here we get an unsettling, almost intimate question about where care ends and violation of the self begins.

The climax overturns everything the viewer has come to believe about Tommy — and this is one of those cases where a twist works not for effect, but for meaning: it forces you to reassemble the whole story, through different eyes. After the credits roll, what remains isn't relief but an aftertaste — heavy, viscous, impossible not to keep turning over in your mind. And so we're left with the dilemma of a delinquent who has, in some sense, gotten better.

The film also echoes the central idea of Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange" — that you can change an individual, change how he relates to life, but you cannot fix society itself.

That's where the ending draws its power: it seems to remind us that the method of reform is determined not only by the one doing the reforming, but also by the one who is — or isn't — capable of responding to it.

I’m continuing to share the remarkable collection of vintage postcards that my family lovingly preserved for many years before passing it on to me. To me, these are far more than old postcards—they are small works of art, carrying within them history, memory, and the quiet breath of bygone eras.

Today’s postcard was published in 1975 by the Soviet publishing house Fine Art (Izobrazitelnoye Iskusstvo). On its reverse is the story of the ship Krepost (“Fortress”), the first Russian warship to sail into the Black Sea and reach Constantinople. Its voyage was not only an important diplomatic mission but also a milestone in Russia’s emergence as a maritime power. During this expedition, Russian sailors carried out the first hydrographic surveys of the Kerch Strait and produced the earliest charts of the Crimean coastline.

I’m always amazed by how much history a single postcard can hold. An artist creates an image, a publisher preserves a story, and decades later this small piece of paper finds its way into your hands, quietly connecting the past with the present.

What fascinates me most is that I see these postcards not only as historical documents, but also as beautiful examples of graphic art. The paper, the composition, the illustration, the typography—every detail tells its own story and reminds us that art can preserve memory just as powerfully as any museum.

“Quiet Bloom” Oil on a round canvas.

I painted this piece using an unusual approach—working in semi-darkness. With the light intentionally reduced, the colors naturally shifted toward cooler tones, creating an atmosphere I couldn’t have planned under bright lighting.

I love experimenting with different lighting conditions while painting. It changes the way the eye perceives color, teaches you to trust your intuition, and often reveals unexpected harmonies. The same painting can feel entirely different depending on the light that surrounds it.

This postcard is another treasured piece from my family's large collection, lovingly preserved by my parents for many years. Thanks to their care and appreciation for history, I can now hold genuine witnesses of the past in my hands.

The text on the back tells the story of the lodia—one of the most iconic vessels of Ancient Rus'. These small sailing and rowing boats were used by the early Slavs for trade, exploration, and military expeditions. Built primarily from sturdy oak, each lodia required remarkable craftsmanship to construct. Over time, these vessels became larger and more sophisticated, eventually featuring decks that protected both their crews and cargo from harsh weather.

I am always amazed by how much history can be preserved in a single postcard. For me, this collection is far more than a group of vintage postcards—it is a living connection between generations.

This postcard is one of the vintage treasures from my family’s collection—a collection that my parents lovingly and carefully preserved for many years. I will always be deeply grateful to them for this priceless gift.

Thanks to their respect for history, devotion to our family’s memory, and appreciation for what might seem like small and ordinary things, I am now able to hold genuine witnesses of the past in my hands.

The Construction of the Admiralty

This vintage postcard tells the story of one of the most significant chapters in Russian history—the construction of the Admiralty in Saint Petersburg during the reign of Peter the Great. Understanding that a powerful navy would become the foundation of the nation's future, Peter I began building Russia’s largest shipyard alongside the founding of his new capital. Within just a few years, the Admiralty had grown into the heart of Russian shipbuilding, where the vessels that formed the backbone of the Baltic Fleet were designed and built.

I have always been amazed by how much history can be preserved within a single postcard. It was created not merely as a souvenir, but as a bridge to the past—bringing together art, education, and historical memory. Through objects as simple as these, we can sense the spirit of another era and discover how history once became a living part of everyday life.

To me, this collection is far more than a gathering of old postcards. It is a living connection between generations, an opportunity to touch history, and a responsibility to preserve it for those who come after us.

This postcard was published in 1975 by the Fine Arts Publishing House in Moscow. It belongs to a series dedicated to the most significant events in Russian military history.

On the reverse is a brief account of the Battle of Grengam (1720), while the front features an illustration by the artist I. Rodinov. Despite its age, the postcard beautifully captures the spirit of an era when history was brought to life through art and collectible illustrated postcards.

I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my parents for carefully preserving this remarkable collection over so many years and passing it on to me. Thanks to their love of history, their respect for our family's heritage, and their appreciation for what might seem like small and ordinary things, I am able today to hold genuine witnesses of the past in my hands.

To me, this collection is far more than a gathering of old postcards. It is a living connection between generations, a treasured memory of our family, and an opportunity to share a small piece of history with others. I cherish this priceless gift and hope to preserve it for future generations with the same care and devotion that my parents showed.

The Battle of Grengam

This vintage postcard tells the story of one of the final major naval engagements of the Great Northern War—the Battle of Grengam, fought on 27 July 1720.

After the Swedish squadron entered the waters of the Åland Islands, the Russian galley fleet, commanded by Prince Mikhail Golitsyn, successfully lured the enemy into the narrow archipelago. There, the large Swedish sailing ships lost their greatest advantage—the freedom to manoeuvre. In the decisive battle that followed, Russian sailors captured four Swedish frigates, while the remaining vessels were forced to retreat.

The victory at Grengam marked an important milestone in the Great Northern War. It strengthened Russia's naval position in the Baltic Sea and brought the long conflict between Russia and Sweden one step closer to its conclusion.

Yet for me, the greatest value lies not only in the history itself, but also in this postcard. It is one of many vintage postcards from my family's remarkable collection—a collection that I am rediscovering with genuine joy, one piece at a time.