Nearly two decades into her filmmaking career, Andrea Arnold has established her distinctive voice and point of view. Her latest, Bird, now making its North American debut at the Telluride Film Festival after a run at Cannes, is no exception.

Her subject, as usual, is a disaffected working-class youth beset by the circumstances of her community and the questionable choices of her parents. Here, it's Bailey (Nykiya Adams), a 12-year-old girl who must reckon with the prospect of her dad's newly announced wedding.

But Bird is really two different films: One a domestic drama chronicling the woes of life in the British working class, be it street gangs, teenage pregnancy, drug dealing, or domestic violence; the other is a fantastical tale of Bailey's encounter with a mysterious stranger who calls himself Bird (Franz Rogowski), and who may have some avian characteristics himself.

The storylines do intersect, and they're woven together by Robbie Ryan's cinematography. He masterfully captures the stark and unexpected beauty of abandoned flats, overgrown fields, and a grimy beach. Appreciation for the natural world is a theme throughout, and it's treated with poetic fervor, whether it be Bailey's marveling at a butterfly, her filming of a wild horse, or her connection to Bird and his wilder soul.

But it all feels a bit overwrought, telling a familiar story of an isolated young woman finding her resilience in the face of overwhelming, if also stereotypical, obstacles. Adams is Arnold's discovery, and she brings a tightly leashed rage and feral vulnerability to her work. But Adams doesn't truly explode until the third act, often leaving Bailey a figure of detachment in her own story.

The film's magical realism is its more intriguing and original aspect, with its open question of whether Bird exists and how much of what we see of him is real or in Bailey's imagination. Rogowski expertly embodies the ornithological aspects of Bird, making him all gangly angles with a preternatural stillness. He lends Bird an oddness underscored by a warmth that feeds Bailey's connection and sense of protection in his company.

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But the film's true standout, as seems to be the case in any performance he tackles, is Barry Keoghan (just wait for the winking swipe at Saltburn). Like his character, Bug, Keoghan endured an unstable childhood, losing his mother at age 12 and spending nearly seven years in foster care. Thus, he brings a lived-in volatility to Bug, who is both striving to be a good father and consumed with his own romances and professional pursuits.

Only Keoghan could sell the absurdity of attempting to coax a toad to "slime," hoping to sell and profit off its psychedelic venom (this is a real thing, but Keoghan elevates it to a point of sublime audacity). His propensity for playing off-kilter characters is ideal for moments where he's singing to his toad or scootering about without a shirt showing off his tattoos (he wears a shirt for approximately one scene in the film). But he also lends Bug an unexpected warmth, as he tries to offer some measure of paternal guidance to his children despite being utterly ill-equipped.

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Still, Keoghan's brilliance can't save the film from its weaker aspects. Though Bird only runs one minute shy of two hours, it feels much longer, as it draws out its contemplative moments. Nowadays, it's a common complaint that movies are too long, but it's a far bigger problem when a film has an average running length and feels interminable.

Like the butterflies and pockets of natural beauty that Bailey is drawn to, there are glimmers of potential in Bird. But it never fully manages to take flight, leaving its provocative conclusion more jarring and confusing than revelatory. Grade: C+