good.film
2 years ago
Empire of Light (UK, 115 min, Sam Mendes). The duty manager of a seaside cinema, who is struggling with her mental health, forms a relationship with a new employee on the south coast of England in the 1980s.
The soft, golden lighting. The art deco architecture. The creaking of leather seats. The swoosh of velvet curtains. And the warm, buttery aroma of popcorn. Have we put you there? You’re in 1980s England… lined up for your £1.50 ticket to the Empire cinema, in the sleepy seaside town of Margate, on the north coast of Kent (we’re not kidding about the ‘seaside’ location - you can literally see the ocean from the glass doors of the cinema). You’ve grabbed your box of Maltesers (20 pence for a box?! Hells yeah!) and your ticket’s been ripped. Now imagine you’re being led up the carpeted stairs to your seat by Mr Sam Mendes, who’s unspooling his latest romantic drama for our viewing pleasure - Empire of Light.
From The Player and 8½ to Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood and Babylon, as cinema lovers, we just adore movies about movies. And while Empire of Light certainly qualifies, it offers so much more to cinephiles that love looking at stories through a socially aware lens. In his ninth film as director, Mendes and his team, including producer Pippa Harris and co-producers Celia Duval & Lola Oliyide, have brought a tender story of racial and mental health awareness to the screen - and framed it in a time four decades past, when attitudes and understanding were a world away from where we’ve reached today.
Hilary (Olivia Colman) is the duty manager at the lovely but fading Empire cinema. Hilary might even describe herself the same way: she seems… not depressed, but flat. “Numb, I suppose”, is how she describes her state to her GP, where we learn she’s been prescribed lithium and has recently been hospitalised. But that changes when a young new employee arrives at the Empire: the British-Caribbean Stephen (Micheal Ward) is unfailingly polite, strikingly handsome and can even whip up an impromptu wing-splint for an injured pigeon with tender loving care. There’s an obvious chemistry, and despite their age gap, Hilary and Stephen share a rooftop kiss after admiring the New Year’s fireworks of 1981. But those aren’t the only explosive events that take place…
Buoyed by their secretive new relationship, Hilary decides to stop taking her lithium. Their time together is joyous, for a while. A picturesque bus trip to the beach, seaside walks along the coast, and passionate trysts in the abandoned cinema upstairs. But cracks soon begin to appear that threaten their improbable affection: Hilary has an enraged reaction out of nowhere at the beach, confusing Stephen. Their bus ride back shows us the entrenched racism that Stephen navigates daily as he takes his arm away from hers when other passengers notice. Later, Hilary witnesses a much more frightening instance first hand, as Stephen is intimidated and nearly assaulted by skinheads on the street. And without her medication, Hilary’s behaviour becomes progressively more unpredictable and concerning. They’re hiding their relationship, but not entirely successfully, adding more pressure to the mix. It’s clear the couple have feelings for each other, and both want to ease the suffering the other is experiencing - but that doesn’t mean either of them have the right solutions.
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Mendes has cleverly framed the story at the turn of the 80s, when racism was openly and sneeringly on display, and complex mental health conditions were barely even heard of by the man on the street, let alone understood or empathised with. Bringing the characters of Hilary & Stephen together so that each sees the world through the other’s eyes is the beating heart of the film - because of course, we the audience get to, too. We walk a mile in Stephen’s shoes as he’s verbally abused on the street in broad daylight, with police officers in full view nearby. We witness the pendulum of Hilary’s bipolar-driven behaviour and, even though the disorder is never named or explained, Colman’s layered and sensitive portrayal helps us innately understand what’s happening.
“Hilary and Stephen have been buffeted all their lives by the message that they are less-than, undeserving, unimportant. Empire of Light highlights the ineffable joy when both discover that none of that is true.” ~ Chicago Reader
If you’d like to feel a bit more equipped before heading to the cinema, though, bipolar disorder (also known as manic-depressive illness) is a mental health condition characterised by periods of elevated or irritable mood (mania or hypomania) alternating with periods of depression. An Australian Bureau of Statistics report from 2018 estimated that 3.1% of Australian adults had experienced a mood disorder (including bipolar disorder) in the previous year. And some studies have found that women with bipolar disorder may be more likely than men to experience depressive episodes, rapid cycling (four or more episodes in a year) and mixed episodes (a combination of depressive and hypomanic symptoms).
Empire of Light is a gentle experience that allows its performers to fully realise their characters in front of your eyes as the power of what they deal with slowly ensnares you. Sam Mendes has delivered his first solo screenplay with admirable restraint: in a parallel universe, you could imagine a Hollywood version with teary scenes of a dramatic diagnosis, a treatment within a mental health facility designed to shock, or syrupy dialogue from family or co-workers preaching their love. Mendes resists the first two entirely, and reserves his only few moments of ‘almost too good to be true’ understanding for Stephen; fair enough, as it’s his most empathetic character. Micheal Ward is a pleasure to watch as a man emboldened by his natural warmth, charisma and skills, yet brought to earth by the realities of the injustice that (quite literally) beats him down in Thatcher’s early 80s Britain. But as usual, there aren’t enough superlatives for Olivia Colman, who juggles the realism of a person suffering from bipolar disorder without veering into overblown or offensive territory. It’s finely judged, authentic work that powerfully opens our eyes to how the condition looks and feels first-hand.
“Colman’s extraordinary, subtle portrait of Hilary’s frailty is piercing… a terrific performance that makes you sigh ‘now that’s acting’.” ~ Jim Schembri
While Empire of Light’s themes of racism and mental health are by no means… uhm, light, the film uses Hilary and Stephen’s connection and mutual care to get us caring, too. We have a genuine response to their trauma, because we’ve met and spent time with Hilary and Stephen as people first, before we “lived” their experiences through Mendes’ lens (speaking of lenses: a quick shoutout to Roger Deakins’ almost dreamlike cinematography - superb, Sir). Their story is the main event. And yet, like us, if you’re someone for whom “the movies” just has that magical sprinkle of fairy dust in the beams of light that dance from the projectors and spark our imaginations, then Empire of Light’s cinema setting is the glistening cherry atop a finely crafted, bittersweet cake.
Interested in other films about racism and mental health? Discover the top 10 streaming titles that explore both of these powerful themes - or donate to the cause at good.film/donate.
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