‘Empire Of Light’ Review: a poignant exploration of race, community and mental illness
If you’re directing a film set in 1980s Britain, be sure to include at least three of the following: lairy skinheads, a crumbling seaside town/post-industrial wasteland, an unprovoked racist attack by members of the English Defence League or National Front, goths (with or without trench coats), and finally a muted conversation about the Falklands, the Miner’s Strike or Margaret ‘Bloody’ Thatcher. If you manage to include all five, you might even win an Oscar, something Sam Mendes knows all too well.
The first 20 minutes of Empire of Light, Mendes’ latest film, set in 1980s Margate, did not fill me with confidence. Frequently used as a way for filmmakers and writers to discuss the current state of British politics and race relations indirectly, depictions of the 1980s almost always rely on a pre-established narrative about the decade, with filmmakers emphasising the same key topics with the knock-on-effect that they end up feeling cliched and unreal. I felt sure that Mendes was about to deliver the same vision of the 1980s that made Pride, Billy Elliot, and This Is England so successful. What emerged, however, was something quietly transcendent.
Empire of Light is perhaps Mendes’ most personal film to date. Set in and around a beautiful old cinema in the English seaside town of Margate, it traces the changing relationship between Steven – played by an incandescent Michael Ward – and Oliva Colman’s Hilary, who, on their first meeting, seems as “numb” to Steven’s youthful exuberance as she is to everything else around her: the rubbish sex she has with her sleazy boss, her friendship, the state of the world she inhabits. However, the two colleagues soon begin a secret affair, prompting Hilary to stop taking her medication. While the tight-knit team at The Empire work towards the premiere of a much-talked-about new film called Chariots of Fire, Hilary’s behaviour becomes increasingly erratic.
Mendes’ film is relatively unique among films set in Thatcherite Britain in that it avoids over-simplifying the mood of the era for the sake of concision. Hilary’s mental relapse begins in 1981, a pivotal and tumultuous year that bore witness to the New Cross Fire, the Brixton Riots, the Toxteth Riots in Liverpool (which, sadly, aren’t mentioned), the imprisonment of the Yorkshire Ripper, the marriage of Prince Charles and Lady Diana, and the hunger strike of Bobby Sands. While these headlines make their way into conversations around the Empire staffroom table, the everyday racism suffered by Stephen is rarely acknowledged, with Hilary dismissing one disgruntled customer as an “angry man” after he has intimidated and nearly verbally abused Stephen on account of his race. “He’s not just angry, though, is he?” Stephen yells, frustrated by Hilary’s inability to see bigotry for what it is.
Many will find Mendes’ portrayal of Hilary and Stephen’s affair a little sickly. Indeed, Empire of Light is at its most cringy when trying to establish the pair’s affection for one another. Thankfully, their relationship isn’t the film’s central focus. Indeed, it gradually becomes apparent that Mendes’ goal is to portray the reality of living with a severe mental illness like bipolar disorder. Colman takes much of the responsibility in this regard, embodying Hilary’s slow relapse into mania with startling ease and sensitivity.
Of course, this is also a film about friendship – about isolation, community, the power of cinema and the importance of sacrifice. Though Empire of Light treads a well-worn path, Mendes has managed to craft a genuinely powerful film with real relevance. For that, he should be applauded.
