Emily Warner (she/her) reviews Sam Mendes’ 2022 Empire of Light, a confused ode to the power of cinema
Image Credit: IMDb
A somnolent seaside town, ocean-soaked paving stones and a faded cinema; this is the setting for Sam Mendes’ Empire of Light. Masterful shots and scenery, paired with the breathtaking performance of Olivia Colman, manage to polish this film to a dull shine; the effect of the artistry is a quiet appreciation for cinema. Unfortunately, the plot can’t quite match this artistry. An ad-hoc amalgamation of themes and plotlines emerge, or rather collide. What should have been a delicately handled cat's cradle of 1980s political turbulence, aesthetics, and emotion becomes a story of overwrought sentimentalism bookended by a supposed tribute to cinema. The movie theatre seems only to be a backdrop for romance, mental illness, racist attacks and sexual abuse; it is a ‘love letter to cinema’ that trails off mid-sentence and only remembers, in the final moments, what it was seemingly supposed to be.
Hilary (Olivia Colman) is duty manager at The Empire Cinema, a time-worn capsule of nostalgia, bedecked with popcorn and red curtains yet strangely lacking in life. Hilary could be described the same way, embodying a sad disquiet and loneliness. Her days feature solo dinners, silent baths, medical appointments and the occasional listless handjob for her boss (Colin Firth). These scenes are disturbingly unromantic as Colin Firth murmurs obscene requests into the resounding silence of his office; “suck me” and “your arse feels so good in my hands” both feature on this nauseating repertoire. Cinematographer Roger Deakins, uses wide, blank shots to encapsulate Hilary’s extreme isolation. The only family she has, so to speak, are an eccentric cast of cinema staff; the music enthusiast Janine (Hannah Onslow), the cinephile projectionist Norman (Toby Jones) and the gently concerned Neil (Tom Brooke). That is, until Stephen (Michael Ward) enters the scene, as Hilary’s new usher.
A young black man, Stephen is a seemingly improbable match for Hilary but an unlikely romance blossoms between the two. Together, they explore the ghost-town of The Empire’s top floor, where two of the cinema's screens had to close down; a beautiful world of dusty carpets, watery sunlight and clouded windows. Here, they nurse a pigeon back to health and in doing so discover a shared connection – it’s hard to not to roll my eyes at the cliché. Mendes, perhaps aware of the inauthenticity to their love, lays the sentiment on thick.
However, complications quickly surface. Hilary’s mental health spirals alarmingly into breakdown, and Colman performs this with mascara-stained, wine-gripping, feminist-raving glory. Meanwhile, the racial tensions of 1980s England ignite and Stephen is increasingly under threat. These two themes coexist clumsily. There is an almost comical moment (for the cynical viewer) when Hilary witnesses the racism in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain, to her surprise, and decides this is an ideal moment to skim stones – what a way to pivot the conversation. Hilary’s sexual abuse by her boss culminates in an unhinged but surprisingly lucid declaration of honesty; ‘to fck or not to fck, that is the question’ she proclaims. Then, seemingly plucked from nowhere, we are introduced to Stephen’s mother, his ex-girlfriend Ruby, and cinephile Norman’s convoluted, regret-filled past.
Mendes dips his toe in a multitude of themes without ever really engaging with any of them. These weighty plotlines are incongruously interspersed with moments of quiet tenderness and romance. Then, when we think it’s over, a love letter to cinema is tacked on the end. Empire of Light is a jigsaw of beautifully shot, masterfully performed puzzle pieces, which ultimately do not fit together despite their aesthetic merit.
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