Writer/director Sam Mendes’ handsomely mounted, intensely intimate character study is enchanting on so many levels, it’s difficult to know where to begin.
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| In the long-deserted upper level of their majestic cinema palace, Hilary (Olivia Colman) watches, transfixed, as Stephen (Micheal Ward) gently tends to a pigeon with an injured wing. |
We’re also reminded, ever so gently, of the healing power of art in general — music, poetry, film itself — and the connective warmth of community, however unusual the “family unit” might be.
And this poignant story’s emotional impact comes from the powerhouse starring performance by Olivia Colman, whose bravura work here may be the high point of an already astonishing acting career. (I’ve said this before, about Colman’s work … and, somehow, she always tops herself.)
The setting is an English coastal town, where Hilary (Colman) is the shift manager of the Empire, a fading palatial cinema house that still looks quite fancy — to a point — while nonetheless being a shadow of its glory days.
(Filming took place in Margate, a town on the northern shore of Kent, where production designer Mark Tildesley discovered Dreamland: a former cinema and ballroom, with a majestic art deco exterior attached to a seaside fun fair. His transformation of that venue, for this film, is breathtaking.)
It’s Christmas Eve, 1980; Hilary arrives for the day’s shift, unlocking doors and cabinets, turning on lights. The rest of the crew soon follows: notably projectionist Norman (Toby Jones), junior manager Neil (Tom Brooke) and 18-year-old worker-bee Janine (Hannah Onslow).
Everybody answers to supervising manager Mr. Ellis (Colin Firth), prone to outbursts of temper, and soon revealed as a tight-lipped bully who uses and abuses people. (Firth, a chameleon who could embrace any role, is thoroughly convincing as an unapologetic bastard.)
Business is light, despite the allure of top-drawer, second-run fare on the theater’s two screens; we sense that a long time has passed, since the Empire enjoyed anything approaching a full house.
Despite her obviously capable skills, Hilary is quiet, withdrawn and oddly muted. It’s as if her eyes have become motion detectors: dark and inert at rest, erupting suddenly with life — and a smile that feels forced, existing only because it’s expected — only when somebody interacts with her.
Hilary lives alone in a tidy but somber flat that hasn’t seen visitors for a long time. Her Christmas dinner is a pathetic affair: a home-cooked meal consumed quietly, accompanied by a glass of wine. A single, forlorn Christmas cracker rests at one side of her plate, waiting to be popped before an audience of none. (A poignant touch, that.)
A doctor’s visit explains all, when he asks if Hilary has “adjusted to the lithium.” She answers this and other questions rotely; the doctor jots notes into a folder, looking down the entire time, failing to observe the expressions on Hilary’s face, as she copes with each response. If she lied, would he notice?
Back at the Empire, one of the “casuals” fails to show up for work one day; he’s replaced by Stephen (Micheal Ward), a relentlessly positive young man eager to fit in, but clearly not in his element. We eventually learn that he tried university, and it didn’t work; he also nurses the heartache of a failed relationship.
Stephen navigates a frequently unfriendly realm at a perilous time: his opportunities limited by Thatcherite politics, his black skin a lightning rod for racist skinhead thugs who believe he has stolen their job possibilities. All this notwithstanding, Stephen always puts his best foot forward.
Hilary is dazzled.
As Colman’s carefully nuanced performance embraces this new phase, Hilary transforms palpably — as the next few days pass — from feeling nothing, to tingling all over. Even though she’s old enough to be Stephen’s mother, she becomes mildly coy and flirty, in an endearingly manner.
Responding to Stephen’s curiosity, Hilary takes him to the Empire’s long-closed-off upper level, which houses two more full-size theaters and a massive ballroom, complete with abandoned grand piano. This vast expanse now is occupied solely by the numerous pigeons that have found their way inside.
Hilary and Stephen bond while tending to a pigeon with a broken wing (an obvious metaphor).
Come New Year’s Eve, they bond a bit more. And then even more.
At which point, happier and more “connected” than she has felt in months, Hilary decides that she no longer needs her meds. And stops taking them.
And we viewers groan, horrified, knowing full well what soon will follow.
To say that Colman subsequently navigates vast emotional mood swings would be the worst of understatements; she owns them. Hilary becomes charming, heroic, spiteful and terrifyingly savage in her mania.
I once thought Anne Hathaway’s fumble for the microphone, during the rehearsal dinner in 2008’s Rachel Getting Married, was the most terrifying scene ever committed to celluloid. I didn’t wish to merely crawl under the chair; I wanted to flee the county. Anything to prevent having to endure the slow emotional explosion about to erupt on the screen.
Colman does Hathaway one better, during a showcase night at the Empire. (Constant Companion moaned a quiet “No, no, no, no, no,” as Mendes relentlessly toyed with our expectations and worst fears.) Goodness, what a scene.
Ward’s work is equally compelling, albeit more quietly so. Stephen enjoys people, is excited by life’s opportunities, loves to connect with music and movies, and refuses to be defined by an oppressive society. Watch Ward’s eyes, and the set of his mouth, when Stephen is confronted by a cranky older customer with a chip on his shoulder (Ron Cook, memorably loathsome in a fleeting role).
Although Colman’s Hilary is this story’s centerpiece, in a way Stephen emerges as the more crucial character; this is his coming-of-age story. His growing bond with Hilary is crucial for both.
Mr. Ellis may display aristocratic breeding and an immaculate wardrobe, but Firth makes him an unrelenting sadist: a predator who selfishly takes advantage of Hilary’s fragility.
Jones’ Norman is this story’s unabashed romantic: often squirreled away in a projection booth plastered with classic movie stills — a refuge of necessity, since reels must be changed every 15 minutes — and something of an enigma. Until, quite suddenly, he isn’t. We hears Mendes’ passion through Norman’s words, when he speaks reverentially of the power of that beam of light, which emanates from the booth window and then displays transformational images on the screen.
Brooke’s Neil is deeply touching, particularly when we discover that he has long watched out for Hilary, and indeed for the entire theater staff. Onslow’s Janine is a hoot: erupting with unrestrained effervescence, and sporting a slack-jawed slow take to die for.
Tanya Moodie pops up in the third act as Delia, Stephen’s wise, observant and devoted mother. She works long hours and falls asleep each evening, exhausted, while attempting to watch some telly.
Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ somber, primarily piano-driven underscore — so perfect, during so many scenes — is augmented by a lively pop soundtrack that reflects Stephen’s taste in music: the blend of ska and punk produced by “two-tone” groups such as The Specials, The Beat and The Selecter.
The era, and passage of time, are marked cleverly by the films shown at the Empire: Being There, Gregory’s Girl, Chariots of Fire and others. This story’s mostly gentle nature notwithstanding, we’re never allowed to forget the rising toxicity of Enoch Powell and the National Front, and the many riots that shattered England in 1981, particularly in Brixton and Toxteth.
Mendes’ best films place compelling, intimate character dramas against periods in history that we cannot allow to be forgotten. That certainly was the case with his previous masterpiece, 1917 … and it’s equally true here.
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