Narnia 4: The Silver Chair (2024) — A Melancholic and Magical Return to a World Beyond the Wardrobe
After over a decade of silence, Narnia 4: The Silver Chair arrives like a long-lost echo from a forgotten realm. For fans who grew up with the magic of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, this fourth installment is more than just a continuation—it’s a resurrection. But this is not the Narnia we remember. This is a colder, darker, and more introspective journey into the depths of despair, hope, and ultimately, faith.
Directed with somber elegance by Greta Gerwig, The Silver Chair follows a new cast of characters while retaining the ethereal weight of C.S. Lewis’s world. The story centers on Jill Pole and Eustace Scrubb, two children thrust into Narnia to find the missing Prince Rilian, son of the beloved King Caspian. What begins as a quest through murky marshes, giant-haunted lands, and underground kingdoms slowly transforms into something more profound—a journey through fear, doubt, and redemption.
The emotional arc of the film hinges on Jill, portrayed stunningly by breakout star Florence Hunt. She’s no wide-eyed dreamer; she’s fractured, skeptical, and emotionally guarded. But that’s precisely what makes her transformation so powerful. In her, viewers find a mirror of our own world-weariness—a child forced to rediscover belief in something beyond herself.
Will Poulter returns as a matured, emboldened Eustace, bringing warmth and courage to the screen in subtle, tender ways. Together, they are guided by the wonderfully odd Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, played to perfection by Andy Serkis. Serkis’s performance is a masterclass in melancholic optimism—dry, wise, and quietly heroic. He is the soul of this story, constantly reminding us that faith sometimes feels foolish, but is no less true because of it.
Visually, The Silver Chair is perhaps the most hauntingly beautiful of the Narnia films. The cinematography leans into fog-drenched landscapes, moonlit swamps, and crumbling ruins. The underground kingdom of the Lady of the Green Kirtle (an elegant yet chilling Anya Taylor-Joy) is a visual spectacle—both claustrophobic and dreamlike. The score, composed by Alexandre Desplat, wraps each scene in quiet magic, never overpowering, always lingering like distant thunder.
What separates The Silver Chair from previous entries is its emotional tone. This is not a story of grand battles or royal coronations. It’s a story of choices, of obedience in darkness, and of clinging to truth when everything feels like a lie. In many ways, it’s the most spiritually resonant of all the Narnia stories—a parable about trust, perseverance, and the long road home.
By the time Aslan appears, not in thunder but in gentle clarity, the film has earned its final, heart-swelling moments. It doesn’t end with fireworks but with peace. A quiet assurance that, even when we’re lost, the path was never far.
Narnia 4: The Silver Chair is not just a return to Narnia. It’s a rediscovery of why we go there in the first place. And when the final curtain falls, you may find yourself not wanting to leave.
