In Margate, the shell of Empire cinema stands along England’s southern coast, its modernist silhouette a reminder of brighter days. By the time the screen flickers again, only two of the four screening rooms are active, the top floor is in a precarious state, and no homes seem to be moving on the market. Yet a new season promises a revival, a chance for the venue to reclaim the prestige that once defined its look. Executive Donald navigates a delicate deal with distributors to host a regional premiere of Hugh Hudson’s Chariots of Fire, with the prospect of the mayor appearing and the cinema’s fate resting, perhaps, on the turnout. Hilary, a manager with a stubborn optimism, carries the weight of this renewal, while Steven, a fresh face drawn into the project, brings a hopeful energy to the mix. A tender bond begins to form between them, lit by the glow of the silver screen and the quiet hum of possibility.
“These spaces exist for those who escape,” observes Norman, a driver whose cigarettes echo the era’s tension. He believes smoking in the hall should be restricted because it distorts the film’s perception. He repeatedly calls cinema an illusion of life, a marvel born from a perceptual quirk: if frames pass swiftly enough, the moment of darkness between them blurs away. Within Empire of Light, the darkness itself becomes indistinguishable, and the film emerges as a delicate, perceptive tribute to cinema that resonates with audiences as a quiet, intimate love letter to the medium.
Britain’s Sam Mendes makes his solo-screenwriting debut with a project that feels like a counterpoint to a liminal moment in history. Created during a period of global pause, the film mirrors the industry’s pause-and-pivot mindset. Empire becomes, in effect, a two-hour reflection on cinema’s resilience, packaged with a wry nod to industry memes and the kind of earnest, unabashed sentiment that some may call pretentious. It nods to René Magritte’s paradoxical imagery, echoing the idea that art can walk a fine line between dream and daylight. The film’s reception, such as its modest score on Rotten Tomatoes, signals a nuanced dialogue about art, memory, and the pulse of a national cinema.
Empire of Light lays out its premise as a tribute to the act of watching films, even while it asks bigger questions about memory and identity. It blends personal recollection with social history, revisiting a moment when a country faced upheaval—economic shifts, political rhetoric, and a culture in transition. On screen, familiar titles flash by—The Blues Brothers, All That Jazz, Raging Bull—while the soundtrack hums with era-defining music. In public life, Margaret Thatcher’s Britain and the street-level textures of community life provide the backdrop that gives the story its texture and tension.
The central figure, Hilary, struggles with internal contradictions that mirror the era’s broader tensions. The character’s day-to-day duties as a cinema worker contrast with private wishes and a longing for personal happiness. This tension is shown in small, telling scenes—moments of hesitation, a gesture toward a future that remains uncertain. Steven, who has not had the advantage of a traditional path, faces the reality of limited opportunities for newcomers in a Britain wrestling with its own identity. The film thus becomes not merely a portrait of a cinema, but a meditation on how people seek belonging in a world that often feels disconnected.
As the story unfolds, the cinema becomes a sanctuary where ordinary life and extraordinary cinematic moments collide. The luminous work of cinematographer Roger Deakins and the emotive score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross create a mood that lingers long after the lights return. Empire of Light is not only about film as an art form; it is about the people who lean on movie houses for comfort, for connection, and for a sense that they are seen. When the screen fades to black, the image that remains is less about the film itself and more about the relationships that sustain, the shared laughter and the quiet courage to keep watching, even when the room grows dark.