Empire of Light Is Another Overly-Sentimental Ode to Cinema

Halfway through Sam Mendes’ Empire of Light, projectionist Norman (Toby Jones) explains the science of movie magic to theater worker Hilary (Olivia Colman). He tells her about the illusion of movement, the number of frames that occur per second (it’s 24!) and, of course, the importance of that beam of light.

Within the context of a film, a scene like this often carries a lot of weight. For Sam in Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans, for example, the description of the inner workings of a projector provides a young boy with his life’s purpose. In Giuseppe Tornatore’s beloved Cinema Paradiso, a similar exchange illustrates the palpable weight that a simple dream can hold. Almost all of the time, a “How It Works: The Movies” scene is meant to convey one thing at its core: Cinema is a beautiful, magical thing.

In Empire of Light, however, the presence of cinema is a little less straightforward. Hilary (Colman), a dutiful cinema worker on the south coast of England in 1980, sees her day-to-day become a little less mundane when new hire Stephen (Michael Ward) enters the picture, and the two form an unexpected and tender friendship.

But things aren’t all rainbows and butterflies. Not only is Hilary in the throes of an unhappy affair with her married manager, Mr. Ellis (Colin Firth), but she’s also just been prescribed lithium, which numbs her to the joys of the world. Stephen is the constant target of racist, Thatcher-era nationalism. As Empire of Light develops, so do its protagonists’ struggles. Hilary’s mental state becomes increasingly precarious, while attacks on Stephen grow more violent by the day.

And, tying together the massive stash of adversities that Mendes has piled into Light—racism, Margaret Thatcher, bipolar disorder and trauma, to name a few—is none other than the power of cinema. Mendes takes an unmistakably loving approach to movies, adding a twinkling, melancholy score from Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor nearly every time the beach-side cinema appears on the screen. Adding to this idealistic effect is Roger Deakins, who frames every shot of the space like it’s his most prized possession, bathing even the most mundane detail in his signature glowing, golden light.

Of course, placing cinema amidst Light’s weighty themes has the capability to convey a powerful message. After all, isn’t it a wonderful thing that, in times of tumult, we can turn to that little beam of light?