The Odyssey

THE ODYSSEY
Writer & Director ~ Christopher Nolan
2026, United Kingdom-United States-Canada-New Zealand-Iceland
Stars ~ Matt DamonTom HollandAnne Hathaway

Judging from the huge amount of social media discourse, Nolan’s adaptation of Homer’s ‘The Odyssey’ is like ‘Star Wars’ or the Marvel Universe for Greek mythology fanboys. That is: there’s a huge backlash for not being what they want, or not adhering to the granular detail, or, etc. Emily Wilson has emerged as a chief critic   herself, her contemporary translation of Homer being a key source for Nolan and widely recommended but was itself criticised. Allow me to clarify my reading by my objections to Wilson’s review. She writes:

“It has nothing convincing to say about time, memory, history, war, or about the relationship between one warrior’s glorious return and the lives of his family, adversaries, comrades, friends and neighbours. It lacks psychological, emotional, political and ethical depth.”

Which is the opposite of my personal reaction – in fact, I was surprised at its depth and evident layers whilst still delivering the big blockbuster set-pieces that Wilson apparently despises, that I expected it to be. While my personal taste dictates that I was happy it was so much a monster and horror film, it was the character nuances that stuck in the memory. The character list is huge and even if there is a sense of “oh, don’t I recognise that face?”, most get enough credence and grace notes for fleshing out and making their point. It was obviously political, about imperialism and ransacking other cultures: all that talk of “the sea people” and the protagonists not realising that they themselves are the threat, until they get to the giant Laistrygonians who barely let them get inland. The psychological, emotional, political and ethical questioning seemed evident as an ancient text used to reflect modern and timeless concerns: I was convinced it had enough to say about the toxic masculinity of men going to war, committing war crimes, PTSD, women left to take the burden back home, etc.; an anti-war film in the guise of fantasy epic.

What does strike me is that Nolan’s style of shuffling of plot and exposition makes this less episodic than anticipated (thinking of Harryhausen showcases), allowing for those themes to dictate much narrative flow.  In this way, the infiltration of Troy at first seems heroic, clever, later revealed as a horror. Any adaption is going to deviate and translate and condense, etc.

From the start with the Trojan Horse buried in the beach, it is always visually spectacular. I have seen social media threads using clips of Harryhausen’s work to disparage Nolan’s adaptation, saying it’s not as good, etc (No: it’s just different). And then you hear that the Cyclops was a 60-foot puppet and that they used moulding clay and animatronics, that the giants were achieved using different sized people and false perspective, etc., and all that is impressive also, and satisfying that it was hand-made in key monster elements as well as digital.  

I have seen many reactions saying that it does nothing for the women, but for me, it was the women and their performances that I remembered just as much as the Trojan Horse or Cyclops.  And how centred on women this is: they all have agency, not one fully crushed by patriarchy despite the culture. That is: it is Penelope letting her composure slip and snapping at her son Telemachus (who just wants to be a big boy like daddy) that startles; Lupita Nyong’o’s rage-and-tears face; and especially Samantha Norton’s Circe screaming her outrage and distrust of all men (“Back to your disguises!”) that is just as visceral and unnerving as the Cyclops. Even Charlize Theron as Calypso and Zendaya as Athena have fleeting but important images to portray (addiction, conscience). If Calypso is dreamy nurse, she is also addiction beach-dream, but it is she that lets him go only when he decides to face up and kick his lotus flower habit. Wilson writes that “Nolan’s Penelope has no dreams”, overlooking her allotted dream sequence, or the feminine fortitude in holding out against an army of boorish suitors for years. It is hard to take Wilson’s argument as a whole when there are these oversights that make it read as if she is just cherry-picking and willfully ignoring.

It seemed to me luminous with the frightful rage of women having to deal with the repercussions of men and their wars and battle-posturing. It is surely an interpretation that does the women justice, especially as this is the tale of one man’s returning home. …And, side-note: if you employ Mia Goth as a servant, you should expect trouble.

Then there’s the diversity of cast: firstly, historian Mary Beard  schools anyone thinking anything but an all-white cast would be historically inaccurate. I object to Wilson’s reading that it denies the diverse cast its credit when she writes:

“Most of the non-white actors – Zendaya, Lupita Nyong’o, Himesh Patel, Corey Antonio Hawkins, Travis Scott – play versions of the Black best friend, whose only role in the drama is to provide aid to the white protagonist.”

Which is disrespectful, reductive and disingenuous at the very least and a little too broad at worse. For example, it is surely Himash Patel’s eyes exuding the distrust and betrayal he feels that acts as a constant reminder of Odysseus’s hubris and folly, that his reputation maybe just myth.

There’s a very modern awareness colouring characters: Odysseus’s PTSD; Circe as a damaged survivor of sexual abuse; the egotism of a “Hero” defying the Gods; the committing of War Crimes. Unreliable narrator, tinnitus with the Sirens, starvation and abuse with Circe, addiction with lotus flowers, hallucinations of Hades etc. There is so much to translate and unpack that you may feel instantly out of your depth if you’re not a Greek scholar or familiar with all the characters. Social Media has so much informed discussion as to the nuance of the individuals, down to giving Polyphemus the Cyclops his due, that the whole only impresses upon reflection in its pursuit of nuance and multiple perspectives. Even so, if you do know it, you might be prone to feeling shortchanged.

Perhaps the pacing takes a while to focus, getting by on spectacle until Odysseus sets out. Perhaps you feel the omission of the text’s sex robs the tale of earthiness, humanity and character. But as an adaptation, there seems wisdom in fleeting over Odysseus’ seven years with Calypso, or his year as Circe’s lover, for the sake of film brevity. If you are invested in these myths, you may feel shortchanged – Athena gets short shrift and Zendaya’s casting may seem bland – but far more problematic is Calypso saying stay here one minute and now you’re ready to go the next, or the fact that this anti-war treatise ends on the thrill of a big action set piece slaughter. But let’s argue that this time Odysseus is killing the enemy within, cauterising the toxic masculinity problem having learnt his lesson and passing on the crown.

There’s so much to absorb, to enjoy, to annoy, to criticise that Nolan’s achievement has marked the zeitgeist surely as much as OppenBarbie-Barbenheimer. Genre-spanning, continuing Nolan’s exploration of guilt-ridden men, epic, dour, a brilliant achievement whose cinematic and cultural size, liberties and fun mean indifference is apparently inadequate as an option.

Babylon

 

Babylon

Writer & Director – Damien Chazelle

2022, US

Stars – Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, Diego Calva, Jean Smart

 

A “Look At Me!” film from the very start, but less obnoxious than Luhrmann and not quite as Music Video as Snyder. Bookended by a deliberate showiness at the beginning and a delusion of meaning at the end, there’s still a lot to like here. It would seem that those involved think of ‘Babylon’ as an important statement on cinema and the era it evokes – indeed, the title doesn’t suggest modesty – but the drama and flashiness aren’t original, just entertaining. It’s all the tropes in their best dress. Brad Pitt is initially in shit-eating-grin mode and Margot Robbie is one of those intolerable “troubled free spirit” whirlwind girls, but when the film settles and stops only showing off and the actors add nuance, they get to do sterling work. After all, these are great actors. Robbie’s bar-top dancing debut and her first foray into the talkies are great set pieces. But it’s Diego Calva that does the work that grounds the drama; you can see and care for the development of character in him most of all, from wide-eyed set flunky to someone who can manipulate even himself and his genuine niceness when his newfound career demands it.

 

There’s a hint of what ‘Blonde’ was on about, exploiting and devouring its own; impressive old-style hundreds of extras in the background; a horror diversion into a dungeon of freaks that proves again that the film is just running on tropes, however amusingly. And there is a Tobey Maguire in a maximum scary cameo. Even Tarantino’s ‘Once Upon a time in Hollywood’ touches base with the reality of behind-the-scenes more credibly. The grit and destruction here is the Hollywood Dream kind.

 

 

So we end up with a montage namechecking films that broke technical moulds. It’s both an audacious and laughable montage, proclaiming a film student level of insight and emotional resonance. You may snort, “Really?” Critic Robbie Collins gives a most generous reading that Manny’s tears and smile are those of defeat and acceptance at a system that chews’em up and spits’em out; but that’s perhaps allowing it more than surface depth (it certainly didn’t strike me that way). For me, the most poignant scene, the one that made me think I was being told something real, is the moment where the black performer Sidney (Jovan Adepo) is persuaded to apply black face to be as dark as his band mates for the camera.

 

Otherwise, I was left wondering what I was meant to feel nostalgia for? A party that is half orgy? Reckless and dangerous film sets with no safety rules and rampant exploitation? Characters that are lushes and addicts and privileged bores at best and moral vacuums at worst? Decadence as the ultimate goal? It’s a charmless world, however hedonism is celebrated. Despite the many great scenes and moments, despite the cast doing solid work, despite always being entertaining and lush, the film’s nostalgia for a romanticised film era – one the Chazelle is too young to have experienced – ultimately seems muddled and false. It’s no way as genuinely troubling as his ‘Whiplash’ existentialism, asking, “What does it take to be an artist?”  

 

Entertaining but unconvincing.

 

 

So Long, My Son

So Long, My Son

Di jiu tianchang -  地久天长

Director – Xiaoshuai Wang

Writers – Mei Ah, Xiaoshuai Wang

2019, China

Stars – Jingchun Wang, Mei Yong, Xi Qi

A Chinese epic covering the history of two of families and especially the lifelong effect on their friendship and repercussions of the “one child” policy that lasted from 1979 to 2015. Chronicling both domestic and political contexts, its narrative requires patience and attention as it is non-linear, flip-flopping across decades. This elucidates life as a mosaic of incidents and drama, where the past, present and future are concomitant, always making away for and crashing into one another. It is also a challenge in that the audience must wait for clarification on details. The jigsaw structure means it engages like a mystery.

The shot framing is often exquisite, often being visually beautiful and busy. The locales look/are convincing lived-in, the minutiae of life cluttering up and almost overwhelming. Like the film in total, the nuances of performances, especially by the exceptional Wang Jingchun & Yong Mei, gather increasing weight as details and suppressed emotion accumulate, as understanding of their characters is layered. Inevitably, when spanning many characters over a long period and with such a complex, diced narrative, there are lacunas – Moli’s motivation is a little vague, for example – and maybe appearing a little cumbersomeness, but once the viewer gets into the flow, the temporal changes and cues reveal themselves as deftly handled.

It is also a film that centres on the political contexts that define domestic lives: here, it's the Chinese one-child policy, the post-1978 era of Reform and Opening-up, work life, etc., with a focus is on how one affects the other. It’s awareness and presentation of the micro and the macro is astute and relatable and establishes ‘So Long My Son’s place as an essential, humanist, melancholy social epic.

The three-hour length reaps tremendous rewards in that, come the end, the audience is no doubt craving for reconciliation. Antecedents like Edward Yang’s domestic epics are obvious, demanding patience and attention to detail until investment in the characters has gone deeper than the viewer perhaps realised (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s ‘Drive my Car’ being another recently). Personally, I was surprised to find myself aggressively wishing for a sympathetic resolution – and it comes not as wish-fulfilment “happy ending”, but just the tide of life. It’s deeply moving.