The Odyssey

It’s not the oldest story—as of this writing the Epic of Gilgamesh still holds that title—but Christopher Nolan’s retelling of the famous Greek epic poem seems to argue that Homer’s work may be the most significant. What is this ancient story about? Not a man, not a war, not a family, not a journey; according to this telling, the story is about everything. Nolan and company present a tale that is civilizational in scope, one that argues that Homer’s masterpiece is a song about all of those things and more, all the way to the very collapse of the world those people were living in. This may be a radical reinterpretation of the text—students reading the book in literature classes, at least back in my day, rarely heard such a theory—and it requires a substantial amount of revision to the tale and the presentation of some of these characters, but it is an idea that makes this movie a provocative and, in some instances, a profoundly emotional experience. Anne Hathaway stands as perhaps the most traditional depiction of a character here, showing a Penelope who is both clever and courageous but also deeply vulnerable. Tom Holland is similarly traditional as Telemachus, though perhaps a touch wiser and more agentic than you usually see in stagings. Other characters show a range of redevelopment, from a brutish but wise Meneleus (Jon Bernthal) to a vaguely sympathetic Circe to an Athena (Zendaya) who comes across like a girl who wandered into the movie from the local hangout. (Come on, dude—Athena was, among other things, a war goddess, not some wispy, weak twentysomething.) And then there is Matt Damon’s titular protagonist: a king and a general and a hero, but also a man broken by his recognition of the consequences of what he has done. It is an affecting performance, and it ultimately confronts the viewer with an emotional depth that matches the pain endured by Penelope. Put the personal struggles together with the global characteristics of the story—war and violence and greed and hatred, courage and cowardice, loyalty and treachery, tyranny and tragedy and love and death—and you can see the outlines of a world descending and being remade in real time (with clear parallels to an all-too-familiar scenario playing out in the world around the viewer). All of that speaks of the tremendous ambition that went into the creation of this film; the judgment here is that that ambition achieved most of its goals most of the way, with just touches of false steps just here and there. Like its story, the movie is long and takes you to many places, but it ultimately arrives at the desired destination: the victory that is great art and great storytelling, combined with cinematic techniques of the highest order. I sing, O Muse, of a work that should not be missed; don’t take ten years to watch this one.