Sam Mendes’ last film, the one-shot war epic 1917, was a tribute to his grandfather, a World War I veteran. Empire Of Light, his latest, is an understated, 1980s-set drama set in a creaking old seaside picturehouse — a handbrake turn in every way. But there is a personal element to this storytelling, too: Mendes has spoken about this being a tribute to his mother, who suffered from mental illness. The result is a period melodrama which tries earnestly to be many things at once, not all successfully: a mismatched romance, a portrait of a nervous breakdown, a snapshot of Thatcher’s racially charged Britain, and a love letter, of sorts, to cinema.
When we meet Hilary (Olivia Colman), she is a listless cinema worker engaging in a suffocatingly unromantic extramarital affair with the manager (played by Colin Firth, as a kind of anti-Darcy). It slowly emerges that Hilary has had a history of mental-health issues, and moves through the world numbed by antidepressants. It’s yet another extraordinary, soul-shattering performance from Colman, even if sometimes Hilary’s story falls prey to melodrama’s lazier impulses; occasionally you can feel the buttons being pushed.
As Hilary's health dominated proceedings, the promise of a Cinema Paradiso-esque elegy starts to fade.
Then along comes Stephen (Micheal Ward), who injects some light into Hilary’s bleak existence. Though he is something of a manic pixie dream boy — he nurses a pigeon back to health, a metaphor about as subtle as a punch in the face — and feels clumsily shoehorned in as a means of teaching Racism 101 for guileless white characters, he is at least charismatically played by Ward. It’s an impressive calling-card for future leading-man roles.
As Hilary’s health dominates proceedings, the promise of a Cinema Paradiso-esque elegy, implied by the title (and marketing), starts to fade. Often the cinema feels like a supporting character, an ancillary element relegated to mere window-dressing. For a cinematic love letter, the characters seem curiously incurious about the films being shown; only Toby Jones’ projectionist teeters towards cinephile territory.
But what window-dressing! With typically skilful cinematography from Roger Deakins and period-accurate production design from Mark Tildesley, Mendes summons a very specific time and place, one that will be instantly familiar to British people of a certain age bracket: a time of economic pessimism, frilly curtains, and unflattering NHS glasses. The filmmakers find a strange beauty in this bleakness, especially in the grand, old-world nobility of the cinema itself: two of the screens are closed, seemingly condemned, and Hilary and Stephen forge a secretive romance in an empty ballroom which is made to seem like some lost archeological treasure. In the wake of the pandemic, it arouses a real sense of cinemagoing’s inherent fragility.
At its best, it is genuinely evocative, and while the script (by Mendes, his first as solo screenwriter) is patchy, it also wisely leaves the camera — plus Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ delicate, pensive score — to do a lot of the talking. As a whole, it doesn’t quite cohere, but you can at least feel the sincere, sentimental intent with which it’s made.
