DE staff writers on The Odyssey

Carlos Jimenez

For the last three thousand or so years, The Odyssey, an oral poem by someone who may or may not have been named Homer about the world’s most clever sovereign and the upshot of a Great War of gods and monsters that may or may not have happened, has been busy beating the hearts of every story penned since the mysterious bard first spoke it aloud. So, of course, it’s only appropriate that Sir Chris Nolan, a starkly realist auteur whose protagonists have long been burdened with the abilities to outsmart their battles and fall victim to the polemical consequences, decided not to put each of Emily Wilson’s flowery words directly to screen, but rather use that famous rationality to ground and shamelessly warp the flesh-and-blood morality of the original work—to dare, with three-hundred-pound 24-IMAX-frame-a-second scalpels, to change the valves on the heart of all narrative hearts. 

To say that effort was as much of a success as it always obviously ought to be would certainly not be unfair, but the beauty in an aging and mournful Odysseus’ climactic monologue comes from a similar but unmistakably different place than the onuses of Nolan’s other characters. He is not a dazed, unnamed warlord-to-be wandering through a twilight world, nor two of history’s most accomplished scientists staring off at a pond, but rather a far more introspective embodiment of that same guilt that has haunted Nolan’s aggressively war-torn leading men since a retiring Batman took the fall for Gotham’s idyllic Harvey Dent. 

The cost of war is certainly a palpable weight upon the film’s characters, as Nolan’s Athena chooses to haunt frames in what we come to realize is the form of her helpless priestess beheaded at Troy, but the emotional core, one that is only fully unlocked by its near-final frames, asserts itself as preceding, or coexisting with, the downfall of Western Civilization as a consequence of violating what the film calls Zeus’ law: the sacred principles regarding community and respect that bind the fabric of this iteration of an ancient but prescient Greece. The gifting of the horse is presented in an undeniable marriage with Nolan’s last film (after all, what is the story of J. Robert Oppheimer, the man who refused to regret, if not itself great American myth?), but Oppenheimer’s characters and dialogue pry that mournfulness and despair out of one another into a socially external space. Odysseus is left with no one to share his guilt, and without a true Homeric Athena to guide his moral crisis or a Roger Robb that forces him to articulate it to a dubiously appointed board of McCarthyists, his self-confrontation and final catharsis come from an entirely different narrative position. 

The original text sees Odysseus return home to slaughter the men who all but claimed his throne, and at once prepare to go to war with their fathers, before the great goddess of wisdom Athena declares peace upon Ithaca once and for all. Nolan’s film, on the other hand, abandons that ending and downgrades the presence of all divinity to implied at best, choosing instead to slide its narrative around like puzzle pieces as a lotus-entranced Odysseus, in a vein undeniably akin to Memento’s Leonard Shelby, struggles to understand what exactly his journey ever was—and why he may not feel nearly as motivated as his textual counterpart to make it home at all. 

Now, the absence of a certain 16,000-line prologue certainly lurks over the film, and the first twenty minutes or so are a bumpy ride of characters asking each other clunky questions that they should’ve known the answers to for some twenty odd years, including a flashback that is especially hazily explained considering it’s becoming pivotal to deciphering the entire narrative—exposition has never quite been Sir Chris’s strong suit—but from there on out the form and function are as meticulous and consummate as Nolan has long promised. The smartest men in his films always find themselves arrested by the introspection of their very actions and the lives they stole from themselves: a dreamwalking Dom Cobb, a homesick Joseph Cooper, and, now fittingly, the very protagonist all his other ones have been leading up to; Nolan’s Odysseus was never the foundation of these men; he is a tapestry of what they all were and have been. Of course, Christopher Nolan, the auteur master of temporal poetry, didn’t build his career upon and about The Odyssey—he retrofitted his Odyssey upon and about his career. 

Elijah Segal

For decades, scholars and critics have described The Odyssey as “unadaptable.” It features a sprawling journey across 24 books, told through a nonlinear narrative, with characters constantly disguising themselves or momentarily taking the form of others. It centers themes of aging, legacy, wit over brutality, perception through storytelling, and reconciling one’s past with the present. Beloved auteur Christopher Nolan’s films likewise favor sprawling, cross-cutting, multilayered narratives, with characters consistently masking or hiding their true identities. His work focuses on the effects and dilation of time, polyphonic storytelling through unreliable narrators, the power of human intellect, and the struggle to come to terms with oneself. After Oppenheimer’s remarkable box-office success and widespread critical acclaim, Nolan was approached by a producer with a blank check to make a movie of his choosing, resulting in The Odyssey, released only weeks ago. To many, this choice for his post-Oscar blank-check movie was bold and frankly unexpected. Nolan’s films have always felt distinctly modern, with his work helping to shape our expectations of the 21st-century blockbuster. To avid Nolan fans, however, the move did not seem too shocking. He is an ambitious director who would relish disproving the “unadaptable” moniker, and who easily recognized in Homer the blueprint for many of his own artistic obsessions. What remained for audiences to wonder was whether Nolan could actually adapt this legendary work of the Western literary canon.

The Odyssey is no stranger to adaptation, inspiring countless stories, from the Coen brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou? to The SpongeBob Movie: Sponge Out of Water. Going into this film, the question was not whether the story could be adapted into cinema. It has already been adapted countless times, just as it has been reimagined through numerous other narratives. Rather, more specifically, could Christopher Nolan successfully adapt the direct events of this ancient story, featuring land and sea monsters, sorceresses, and gods? Several adaptations preceded Nolan’s, one of the most popular being Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy, which centers on events from The Iliad involving Achilles and Paris. Odysseus appears briefly in this epic, primarily in connection with his development of the Trojan Horse plan—more on that later. While Troy accomplishes much through its scale and design, it often drags and disappoints narratively beyond a few well-directed action sequences. There are also direct adaptations, such as Mario Camerini’s 1954 Ulysses, featuring Kirk Douglas as Odysseus and placing a strong emphasis on elaborate, fantastical set pieces. More recently, Uberto Pasolini’s 2024 The Return offered a lived-in retelling of the final 12 books of The Odyssey, taking place entirely in Ithaca and featuring Ralph Fiennes as an aged and weary Odysseus. All of this demonstrates that the possibilities for Nolan’s adaptation were nearly endless. But how would Nolan choose to mold literature’s most famous work?

Nolan faced many stylistic and narrative decisions. Odysseus’ journey includes conversations with gods, the defeat of a Cyclops, encounters with Scylla and the Sirens, battles against giant Laestrygonians, years trapped on two different islands, and a literal trip to the underworld. Would the gods play as prominent a role in the film as they do in the book, given that the epic centers on divinity and the will of the gods, or would they be stripped from the narrative, as they were in Petersen’s Troy? Would every narrative beat and location be included? Would every monster be fought? How major a role would Ithaca play as Odysseus’ long-lost home? As Emily Wilson, the translator whose version of the poem inspired this adaptation, made clear in her scathing critique of the film, this is not an accurate literary adaptation in the slightest—and we should all thank Zeus for that. Literary adaptations are often held to the bizarre standard of needing to emulate their source material perfectly, yet what felt most successful about this interpretation was precisely where Nolan strayed from the original text. Anyone familiar with Nolan’s work expected him to engage heavily with the story’s nonlinear nature. While the Book’s story begins in media res, and quickly moves back in time through Odysseus’ journeys before placing us comfortably in the present, Nolan consistently jumps between timelines and episodes, allowing the chapter-based and episodic form of the original text to flow into a more character-driven and cinematically structured approach.

The humanity of the story takes center stage in Nolan’s adaptation. The gods are not all-powerful beings shaping human fates or transforming into humans and animals. Instead, they appear as whispering moments of clarity and guidance that bring direction to a person’s journey, occasionally appearing only in someone's eyes or demeanor. In this vein, Nolan turns the implicit theme of xenia, or hospitality, the idea of treating others as one would want to be treated, into Zeus’ Law, an intrinsic human impulse to extend common courtesy to outsiders on the grounds of shared humanity. While The Odyssey can feel like an antiquated story from the distant past, Nolan thrusts its conflicts into the present by emulating Wilson’s syntax and her decision to use simple, direct, modern language, much like the bards who would have told this story in the common and most accessible tongue. Beyond contemporizing the language and setting, Nolan adds modern stakes. Rather than focusing solely on the book’s immediate concern with Odysseus losing his legacy by failing to return home, similar to Agamemnon’s disgraced homecoming to Clytemnestra, Nolan introduces the historical mythos of the “Sea Peoples.” Often conflated with modern understandings of Atlantis, these stories of a seafaring people erasing ancient Greek cultures provide an easy way to add immediate stakes of impending doom and darkness. This forces all characters, both those in Ithaca and Odysseus and his men, to act with a stronger sense of urgency, as there are direct tangible consequences to not making it home, beyond just a disordered kingdom and a fleeting legacy. Nolan adds these stakes into this ancient story, allowing it to resonate more with modern audiences, as in a modern day that often feels as if we too are moments from slipping into another catastrophe, unable to escape our violent histories and past wars. into an ancient story displayed on modern screens, playing on society at a time when the world can often feel as though it, too, is being engulfed by the shadow of an impending catastrophe.

Cinematically, the film is nothing short of a staggering achievement. Filmed entirely with the Keighley 70mm IMAX camera, it is, as the marketing was so eager to emphasize, the first film shot entirely in 70mm IMAX for 70mm IMAX presentation. Seeing the movie in this format, it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed and awestruck by the scope and scale of the endeavor. The format was also an asset to the film’s pacing, as its three-minute recording limit meant that no shot could consume too much of the story. Hoyte van Hoytema once again demonstrates his mastery of the format, fully utilizing the on-location settings and never shying away from the sheer scale the story demands.

Matt Damon’s performance as Odysseus could easily be described as his best yet, bringing to life Wilson’s description of a “complex man.” Damon’s Odysseus grapples with his role as the protector of his men, struggles with PTSD from a war he could win only by violating Zeus’ Law, and hides himself from those he loves because he no longer feels able to relate to the man they expect to return and hope to love. Tom Holland’s Telemachus gives a tour-de-force performance as well, embodying youthful passion in his quest to find his father. Likewise, Anne Hathaway’s Penelope serves as a patient, guiding, and intensely loving matriarchal figure, devoted both to Odysseus and Ithaca, who becomes one of Telemachus’ most important mentors. Nolan chooses to root the story in these three characters, a logical decision because much of the tension and conflict depends on the fragmentation of this familial unit. However, the impact of several characters who receive only minutes of screen time cannot be understated. Benny Safdie’s Agamemnon, in many ways, steals the show. It is an unusual role for Safdie, one in which his performance depends more on his presence than on overt emotional or technical display. Robert Pattinson also delivers a memorable performance as Antinous, a young, sympathetic antagonist whose counterpart in the book appears far more decisively evil compared to this cowardly and insecure portrayal.

One of the most fascinating decisions in this adaptation is the emphasis placed on the Trojan Horse, which is notably absent and scarcely mentioned in the original Odyssey. Nolan uses the event to center Odysseus’ struggle on his willingness to violate Zeus’ Law for his own gain. This becomes the driving force behind his inability to return home, rather than a petty grudge from the gods prolonging his voyage. It is a grounding decision that allows the film’s conflict to depend on PTSD and Odysseus’ struggle to confront his actions during the war, which prevent him from truly coming home even after he physically returns to Ithaca. Odysseus carries guilt over the Trojans he deceived and the men he manipulated into doing his bidding, expressing the modern grief of survivor’s guilt within a three-thousand-year-old story.

Another moment that allows Odysseus to display his cunning comes when he and his men confront the sorceress Circe. Through clever, horrifying in-camera animatronics and prosthetics, Samantha Morton’s Circe transforms Odysseus’ men into pigs. Nolan once again grounds the story in Odysseus’ humanity by having him confront and outwit Circe rather than relying on Hermes and other gods to rescue him as he does in the book. Not all the film’s standout moments require extensive revision of Homer’s story. The final, climactic battle against the suitors is not only unforgettable but also feels carefully orchestrated and developed throughout the film, rewarding the audience with a well-earned payoff after witnessing the toll the suitors have taken on Ithaca and the lengths Odysseus has gone to reclaim his throne. Barely straying from the original text, the sequence also features an especially strong performance from John Leguizamo as Eumaeus, who conveys sincere admiration and loyalty toward Odysseus and his throne. Several cross-cutting storylines converge cohesively in the palace hall as Antinous’ servant and mistress Melantho plots against Penelope, while Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, takes center stage with a bow and arrow.

However, to laud the adaptation entirely as a success would do neither the original story nor the film itself justice. Several creative decisions made by Nolan and his team derail the film’s momentum and convolute an already dense story. Although the Cyclops sequence is a visual achievement, particularly in its use of practical effects, minimal CGI, and horror conventions, it falls narratively flat, especially given its pivotal role in the original story. The choice to omit perhaps the most famous line in the epic, “My name is Nobody,” and to turn the Cyclops into a purely monstrous being rather than an imposing humanlike force cheapens a fascinating moment that could have further highlighted Odysseus’ wit and its consequences. This is a recurring theme that Nolan was willing to explore through such additions as the Trojan Horse. Yet, for one of the most important textual moments in The Odyssey, he instead has Odysseus and his men subdue the monster, listen to him mumble gibberish, and quickly make their escape. Although the flight through the trees is full of tension and action, the scene’s overall narrative impact diminishes, leaving audiences to question why Poseidon later torments Odysseus. The answer subtly lies in the Cyclops’ gibberish but is never clearly stated, leading to a floundering storm scene and convoluted consequences.

Furthermore, the introduction of Sinon, a character from Virgil’s Aeneid, feels misplaced and forced around the decision to make the Trojan Horse pivotal to the film’s story. In The Aeneid, Sinon is the Achaean soldier who is tricked into presenting the horse to Troy, convincing the Trojans that the siege has ended and that the horse is a gift to Athena representing surrender. He is then taken captive by the Trojans and sacrificed. This story is absent from The Odyssey but likely stems from the same mythological tradition as Homer’s work. Within this adaptation, however, Sinon is by far the most forced addition. By narratively replacing Odysseus’ meeting with Achilles in the underworld and serving as the motivation for Odysseus’ guilt over his violation of Zeus’ Law, the character comes across as a plot device rather than a logical addition. Rather than directly explaining through their underworld confrontation that this violation caused Odysseus’ suffering, it would have been more interesting to give additional screen time to characters already present in both the original text and the adaptation. Their stories could have been allowed to breathe and to imply Odysseus’ betrayal of Zeus’ Law, something already evident in the source text. Agamemnon’s brief but impactful time on screen, particularly in the underworld, demonstrates how this could have been explored further. Lupita Nyong’o is likewise given little time or opportunity to bring the full force of Helen and Clytemnestra’s stories to the screen. This feels especially odd given how directly their stories parallel Penelope’s and how their spouses, Menelaus and Agamemnon, also experience distinct homecomings.

Potentially the film’s biggest narrative change, its ending, also feels underwhelming given the scope and scale of the story. This style of ending has become expected in recent Nolan epics: a lead character and supporting cast stare into the distance in close-up while a montage of earlier scenes plays and a triumphant voice-over speaks about moving into tomorrow. Oppenheimer ends with a similar device, as do Dunkirk, Interstellar, The Prestige, and The Dark Knight. Although repetitive, this approach often works well, tying a film together in a neat bow, distilling its themes, and reminding the audience of its moral message. Here, however, it does not feel adequate for an epic of such scale, proportion, and historical weight to conclude with this familiar Nolan trope.

The film replaces Odysseus’ original return to his father Laertes and the subsequent revolt by Ithaca’s people over his killing of their relatives, the suitors, with elements of Virgil’s Aeneid. Odysseus instead leaves Ithaca and sails toward a new land not encroached upon by darkness. This decision weakens the story’s overall thematic purpose, as in the original text Odysseus, with the help of Athena, is able to remove the darkness that has already engulfed his land and restore harmony as its rightful king. The Odyssey is both a tangible and metaphysical homecoming story, exploring the location of home and the meaning of home. The original text’s decision to end with home being restored both literally and emotionally is deliberate, showing that Odysseus was able to restore himself and his literal home, giving a fitting end to this story. Nolan’s version is not focused solely on homecoming but on relational reunion, which is not tied to a single place. There are benefits to how the film explores the meaning of “home” as something more than a tangible location. Nevertheless, the ending reduces the entirety of Odysseus’ journey to a climactic moment of reclamation, before quickly returning to the next journey, rather than allowing him to truly return and rebalance his home’s order.

Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey is a triumph. Objectively speaking, one cannot ignore the film’s technical, artistic, and innovative strengths. However, those qualities alone are not what make it great, nor are they specific to this adaptation. There are several departures from the original that displace this story from the grounded, human, and gritty world Nolan works so passionately to capture. In a film like this, the audience should never feel that such an extensive narrative is slipping from the director’s grasp, even momentarily. However, these slight missteps do not outweigh the achievement of this film. What Nolan accomplishes is a genuine translation of The Odyssey—its themes, characters, and messages—into cinematic form. A perfect adaptation does not need to be a one-for-one retelling of its source material; in fact, it rarely should be. Adaptations succeed and flourish beyond their source material when a director appreciates what the original work represents and transfers its essence into a completely different medium.

That said, several departures from the original seem to displace the story from the grounded, human, and gritty world Nolan is trying so passionately to capture. This is not to say that he does not succeed in most respects. Yet the film loses its way at the exact moments when the story most needs control, and in a film like this, the audience should never feel the narrative slipping from the director’s grasp, even momentarily.

Matthew Colandrea

When the original Star Wars released in theaters fifty years ago as one of the world’s first blockbusters, most audiences had one question: How did they do that? The Odyssey begs that same question, even though it is not a science-fiction epic with revolutionary special effects. In a time of CGI characters dominating film, having ground-breaking visual effects is no longer unique. Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of The Odyssey, raises that question because of everything captured in the IMAX cameras, from the action to the performances.

The Odyssey is the original Greek myth and hero’s journey depicting Odysseus’s journey home from Troy in a world of gods and monsters. Despite being a swords-and-sandals epic set in ancient times, each set piece in this film would be the standout moment of any other movie. Watching Odysseus and his crew at sea had the same feeling as the Lord of the Rings, as the camera pans out to show the characters in a vast landscape, journeying to their next destination. The action is tactile––terrifying monsters and behemoths with sounds that shatter your eardrums. The action and camerawork is incredibly dynamic as the camera places the viewer in the middle of the action and follows all the movement. All the action is well choreographed and shot, some of the best of Nolan’s career.

The action is complimented by incredible performances, with Matt Damon in particular tactfully carrying the weight of Odysseus’ guilt and longing. In particular, the scene of the siren’s song does not use a song, but instead features a voiceover from Odysseus (Matt Damon) and Ludwig Gorrison’s score. In this moment, Damon has the herculean task of conveying the emotion of the siren song, but the pain in his voice as he describes it and the screams as he listens leave such a strong impression. Additionally, a moment in the third act once again features Damon’s narration over the action to contextualize the moment, and he excels here. Damon’s physical performance in the scene conveys his grief and guilt so well that it brings together the main themes of the film. His performance exemplifies how the set pieces are elevated by the work of the actors.

This ties back to the core of the film and a recurring theme for Nolan’s recent work: guilt over what the world has become. Each of the destinations Odysseus reaches and the people he encounters drive home the idea that the world is broken and all hospitality is lost. It makes each confrontation more impactful on a rewatch because each encounter supports the undercurrent of the world breaking, without it being explicitly stated.

Now, the marketing for the film highlighted that it was fully shot with IMAX camera on 70mm film. Having seen the film in both IMAX 70MM and regular 70MM, the IMAX aspect ratio does make a difference. On the bigger screen, with the expanded footage, the oceans become more isolating, the performances more defined, and the entire experience grander. Several times, the size of the obstacles is part of what makes them so terrifying, and the IMAX experience amplifies that tenfold.

In a summer filled with mediocre franchise blockbusters like Supergirl, The Mandalorian and Grogu, and Moana, The Odyssey stands apart as a marvel reminding audiences of the magic of blockbuster filmmaking. The film is an innovative marvel that pushes the boundaries of modern techniques while preserving the emotional core of Nolan’s Odysseus’ journey. If you see one movie this summer, go see The Odyssey. And once you are back at Columbia, see it in IMAX 70mm.

Sita Vemuri

Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey is incredibly immersive, thanks to the expanded aspect ratio and signature audiovisual style. Audiences can feel the heat of the sack of Troy, the divine fury crashing through the waves, and the grandeur of the Greek warriors. The experience is tied together with nonlinear editing, highly fitting considering the film’s inspiration: Homer’s Odyssey. However, the film falls short in its character development—the very quality that makes the poem timeless.

Odysseus is Oppenheimer 2.0, remorseful about the devastating way he won the war. This might have been an interesting throughline—and still a good adaptation—if the original Odysseus’s identity didn’t center on being a cunning warrior. The lost king is appealing because he uses strategy instead of brute force to perpetrate and survive immense harm. The film, afraid to glorify such an imperfect character, transforms his story into the morally digestible journey of a (unadulterous) hero repenting for his sins. Thus, for most of the film, the “man of many wiles” isn’t doing any clever things—he’s just suffering. And just for that, it seems, he is redeemed and deserving of a happy ending.

Similarly, Nolan’s female characters are boring, reduced largely to victims. Helen is the mutilated wife of an angry, vengeful Menelaus—a far cry from the poem, in which she spins narratives of her role in the Trojan War as Menelaus only gently pushes back. Circe turns men into animals as self-defense against their intrusions—rather than, say, for fun—but also instantly bends to Odysseus. Calypso is barely a shadow of her poetic counterpart, the self-assured nymph with whom Odysseus has a complicated relationship. Athena, the puppet master of the epic, is reimagined as a figment of Odysseus’s psyche but doesn’t serve any purpose at all. Penelope and Clytemnestra are revised to be more helpless and sympathetic, respectively; however, they are still well thought out.

Ironically, the only woman denied a passive portrayal is the one whose victimhood is most compelling: Melantho. A film adaptation of the murder of Melantho and eleven other enslaved handmaidens, one of the most difficult scenes in the poem, could have explored themes such as consent, agency, the dynamics of enslavement, and reaching manhood. Yet this dimension is completely absent in the film. Melantho does nothing more than shamelessly betray and talk back to Penelope (her enslaver, by the way), after which she is forgotten.

Nolan’s aversion to intense violence is also present at the climax. In the source text, Odysseus must eliminate all the suitors to regain control of his property; the film, in what feels like a typical Hollywood narrative, creates a singular villainous entity out of Antinous and prematurely concludes the conflict with his death.

The dialogue isn’t great either: taking a shot every time someone says “Zeus’s Law” would almost certainly be fatal. It doesn’t help that the phrase’s meaning expands with each use, until eventually a violation of the ancient practice of hospitality has somehow caused the Late Bronze Age collapse.

Christopher Nolan had a clear vision, and he executed it artistically. But the story he told was not Homer’s Odyssey.