Empire of the Sun

It was Steven Spielberg's first "serious" mainstream film.

For me, Empire of the Sun was far and away his strangest and most haunting work for almost two decades, before it was finally superseded by A.I. The comic-book clarity of the director's vision, coupled with the mesmeric and surreal prose of J G Ballard's original, autobiographical novel, makes for a heady, at times disturbing and ultimately deeply moving piece of cinema. At one level it's Hope and Glory on acid: at the same time, it is shot through with pain and loss and beauty, all of which its director has brought to the screen with a quite uncompromising sincerity. It's not perfect, but then neither are any of Spielberg's films, and it certainly paved the way for Schindler's List a decade or so later.

Of course it also launched on the world an enchanting, chilling young actor in the shape of a preteen Christian Bale. In time Bale would weather both kid-flicks and period dramas (not to mention the more-than-occasional bit of sci-fi) to take his rightful place as one of Hollywood's most phenomenal talents, in blockbusters and artsy-fartsy stuff equally. In Empire though there is a simple, full-blooded intensity to his performance that is partly Spielberg, partly his own, and partly down to the sheer energy of a 12-year-old boy. More than Spielberg's cinematography or Tom Stoppard's typically strange, thoughtful screenplay, it is Bale's performance that really makes Empire of the Sun.

That, and of course John Williams's BAFTA-winning score! The words (with Bale lip-synching, as it happens) in the above clip are those of a traditional Welsh lullaby - though it sounds as if they may have been sung to make them sound more Japanese. For me the sheer incongruity of it says more about the chaos and stupidity of war than any number of Saving Private Ryan sequences ever could.

Huna blentyn yn fy mynwes
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat,
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron;
Ni cha' dim amharu'th gyntun,
Ni wna undyn â thi gam;
Huna'n dawel, annwyl blentyn,
Huna'n fwyn ar fron dy fam. 

Paid ag ofni, dim ond deilen
Gura, gura ar y ddôr;
Paid ag ofni, ton fach unig
Sua, sua ar lan y môr;
Huna blentyn, nid oes yma
Ddim i roddi iti fraw;
Gwena'n dawel yn fy mynwes
Ar yr engyl gwynion draw.

Sleep my baby, at my breast,
’Tis a mother’s arms round you.
Make yourself a snug, warm nest.
Feel my love forever new.
Harm will not meet you in sleep,
Hurt will always pass you by.
Child beloved, always you’ll keep,
In sleep gentle, mother’s breast nigh.

Do not fear the sound, it’s a breeze
Brushing leaves against the door.
Do not dread the murmuring seas,
Lonely waves washing the shore.
Sleep child mine, there’s nothing here,
While in slumber at my breast,
Angels smiling, have no fear,
Holy angels guard your rest.

As for the explosions, it's worth bearing in mind that this was before the days of CGI.

Looking back on the film in 2009, Leslie Phillips reminisced:

It was my 85th birthday on Monday, which was also the day I heard that J G Ballard had died. The more people you've known through your life, the more the obituaries begin to pile up. It's one of the tragedies of growing old.

The news rekindled memories of acting in the film adaptation of his book Empire of the Sun in 1987. Ballard played a cameo role: he was such a marvellous writer, and a very gentle man, terribly sweet and friendly.

I spent most of the film with the little boy who played the main part, the semi-autobiographical character who becomes a Japanese prisoner of war.

I had no inkling then that that boy, named Christian Bale, would become such a huge star. The director, Steven Spielberg, took as much care of him as if he was his own son.