In only his second production script since 1917, Sam Mendes delves into the territory of his formative years and a mood of nostalgia. The story he tells in Empire of Light is not strictly autobiographical, but is based on the music and movies and political climate that informed his coming of age—especially the movies. It’s not cinema with a capital “C” that Mendes celebrates, but the kinds of popular features that shape memories and are indelibly linked to passages of life. A valentine to celluloid that doesn’t entirely shy away from self-awareness, it’s a beautiful film set mostly in a vintage gem of a cinema palace on England’s southeast coast. As the troubled, dazzlingly resilient, poetry-loving theater manager, Olivia Colman delivers a stirring performance and some of her most moving screen work to date.
As the story opens, 1980 is coming to an end and the Blues Brothers and All That Jazz are performing on the marquee of the Empire, a movie theater overlooking the beach. The filmmakers resurrected a derelict cinema in Margate, with Mark Tildesley’s production design a rich but not overdone art deco marvel of wood paneling and jewel-toned velvet. Elegant geometry is emphasized in the symmetrical compositions of master cinematographer Roger Deakins, a frequent Mendes collaborator.
Empire of Light
The Bottom Line A crowd-pleasing, occasionally contrived showcase for a stellar Coleman.
Coleman’s Hilary, who often wears an exasperated expression, is apparently recovering from a period of intense mental exhaustion and is being treated with what her doctor calls the “wonder stuff,” lithium. She eats Christmas dinner alone, but she hasn’t turned her back on life, attending dances and enjoying a collegial bond with her colleagues.
Most of Empire’s crew are younger, including punk Janine (Hannah Onslow) and observant and likeable junior manager Neil (an endearing Tom Brooke). Closer to Hilary’s age is projectionist Norman, played by Toby Jones in excellent understated form, making the character’s professional pride and love of the “complex mechanism” of the projection booth utterly believable. The script takes things a step too far, however, with its lofty statements about the light beam, the static frames, the optic nerve and the illusion of movement – all of which seem like spontaneity-free, hit-the-nails-on-the-head, writerly statements. the title of the film.
Hilary’s boss, Mr. Ellis (Colin Firth, playing self-absorption to a T), is a jokester who regularly invites her to his office for shady sex. When he and his wife (Sarah Stewart) walk into the same restaurant where he’s dining, Hilary, naturally, is the one who climbs. But with the arrival of a new employee, 20-year-old Stephen (Micheal Ward, Netflix’s Top Boy), things change for her and she feels seen, tapping into reserves of joy and strength.
Their connection begins with his rabid curiosity about the theater itself, which leads them to the abandoned upper floors, one of which was a former ballroom — a vision of worn-out glamor that is as striking a production design as the grounds of the building that it still works. level. Pigeons have colonized the abandoned site, and Steven’s treatment of an injured bird barely overcomes the fury of the pigeon whisperer – something the script humorously acknowledges in a later exchange. That the eerie top floor of the Empire soon becomes the site of passionate trials between Hilary and Stephen is believable because of Coleman’s stark vulnerability and Wald’s understated attraction to the older woman.
Mendes has planted his characters in a moment in time defined not only by Stir Crazy and Chariots of Fire, which, Ellis proudly announces, will have its “local gala premiere” at Empire, but also by Thatcherism and the racist skinhead violence. The racial theme is treated with a touch that could have been lighter, making Wald’s character more symbolic than soulful – no fault of the actor, who provides interesting, warm and sometimes inscrutable undertones. As his mother, a single parent and nurse, Tanya Moodie impresses in her brief screen time, effortlessly showing the source of Stephen’s integrity.
Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ score taps into a nostalgic vein and the film’s overall visual brilliance, from the kaleidoscopic radiance of a funfair to the vast expanse of coastline. Tracks by Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens are used well – particularly the latter’s “Morning Has Broken”, providing a melodic and haunting counterpoint to a disturbing scene in which Hilary is at her most precarious.
As for an over-the-top debacle involving gangs of violent racist thugs, you can hear the narrative gears turning, distracting from the point Mendes is making. the scene is far less convincing than Steven’s charged confrontation with an ugly customer (Ron Cook). Nothing in the film has a fraction of the dramatic impact of Coleman’s emotional performance—the way her face lights up or sounds light, the way she rages against cruelty or, especially, the way she crushes a well—heeled together. with lipstick on her teeth and a few Auden lines to share.
