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.

Film comments 2024: Lady parts

 

Film comments 2024: Lady parts

For films that talked about lady parts, there was none moreso than Yorgos Lanthimos’ ‘Poor Things’.  If at first it seemed dangerously close to a male fantasy of creating and maltreating a child-woman, riffing on ‘Frankenstein’ and classic picaresque, it soon became apparent that this is not a ‘Weird Science’ fantasy but more musing on nature and nurture. Ditching the unreliable narrator element of Alasdair Gray’s novel, among other aspects, it offered a romp through the picaresque – also overlong, which is a feature of the form – with a feminist slant. Although I had friends that thought Emma Stone was mostly just over-acting instead of good – which I didn’t wholly agree with – there was much to the aesthetic and execution that was undeniably great, a full feast.  

And from “Goth ‘Barbie’” to “Gore ‘Barbie’”, Coralie Fargeat’s ‘The Substance’ proved to be the essential winning shock to the year’s worthy cinema. It is true that I couldn’t help but have reservations as I had with Fargeat’s debut ‘Revenge’ – what I saw as a certain carelessness with detail that shortchanged all that was good – but there was no denying its triumph of being a crossover body-horror success with scrungy B-movie basis and A-movie gloss. 

Zelda Williams’ ‘Lisa Frankenstein’ also played with body horror and female perspective, but it was ultimately an airless warm-and-fuzzy Eighties homage rather than insightful (you’d have to go to ‘I saw the TV Glow’ for a homage with a real emotional charge).

 And body-horror was also a feature of female expression in Rose Glass’ ‘Love Lies Bleeding’, but that was just one Tokyo Drift that its erotic thriller basis took, having already integrated an ugly Ed Harris mullet, buff lesbian bodybuilding, drugs, modern American Noir and Gothic, obsession, and moments of superviolence. Its genre play and overcooked ingredients all held together successfully by pure vibe, with a finale akin to ‘The Substance’. But here, the feeling was that it got crazier and more surreal as things heated up and desperation sets in.

Certainly it was a more successful Coen-esque potboiler than Ethan Coen’s own ‘Drive-Away Dolls’, which was cartoonish to the point of diverting-without-substance. It shared a similar premise of two women in love on the wrong side of the law, and I enjoyed it more than most, sensing from the start that it wasn’t going to need much investment, but it melted away where ‘Love Lies Bleeding’ gathered more respect in retrospect.

Similarly, ‘Bottoms’ didn’t quite hit the nerve of Emma Seligman’s previously delicious ‘Shiva Baby’, however spiky it was, mostly because it ultimately turned to a more conventional mode, forsaking much of its edginess and satirisation of the high school genre to something predictable.

Like ‘The Substance’, Ozgood Perkins’ ‘Longlegs’ was another film that I felt out of step with the general consensus. It was all centred on the trauma of Agent Lee Harker (an appealingly offbeat Maika Monroe) … to a contrived degree. Brilliantly directed but upon reflection, I was unconvinced, excellent direction in my book requiring attention to details that I felt ‘Longlegs’ lacked. Even if it absorbed a full throttle Nicolas Cage performance without losing focus, there were too many non sequiturs and an underachieving finale.

As often happens, two similar genre pieces came out around the same time; this time there were a couple of nunsploitation horrors. ‘The First Omen’ proved surprisingly stylish and better than expected although it ended up petering out. Needed more convoluted death set-pieces. ‘

'Immaculate’ took the opposite approach, apparently just shrugging and deciding, “Fuck it! Let’s go bonkers for no reason for the last act.” And horror fans were sated at the outrageousness and bad taste.Looks good, swiftly jogs through its predictable beats (oh, “catacombs” you say?), has a series of knowing performances and Sydney Sweeney gives it her all, from piousness to mania. Gleefully goes through its tropes and archetypes until revealing itself to be an entertaining slice of schlock. Again, for religion, a woman’s body is the battleground and ornate ceremony is the curtain of respectability. Moving through nunsploitation, superficial jump-scare horror, a pretence of po-facedness, nightmare sequences, a little mad scientist and Final Girl action, it’s the final movement that delivers its true worth. Horror fans will be rewarded the wait and left smiling.

Ti West’s ‘MaXXXine’ ended the Pearl & Maxine trilogy with the least surprising, least satisfying instalment. ‘Pearl’ had promised something that would make this trilogy a modern horror classic, but it turned out all the dangerous stuff was already used up and the narcissism that made Maxine such a promising horror narcissist-sociopath was subsumed under an admittedly enjoyable Eighties-and-giallo recreation but an average conclusion.

Rather, it was JT Mollner’s ‘Strange Darling’ that offered up the danger. Told in six chapters but out of order, which means we get sensory and action overload up front before setting in for long two-hander flirting – “Are you a serial killer?” And then the revelations… Willa Fitzgerald is exceptional with Kyle Gallner more than her match. The 35mm thriller colour scheme, the abrasive then seductive sound design, the dialogue, the hints of something retro, all go to make this smart, fun, funny, upsetting but ultimately a hugely entertaining thrill ride with a little something to say about gender roles. Even makes room for making breakfast being a highlight.

While ‘Strange Darling’ was strictly rollercoaster genre fare and therefore one step removed from reality, a film like Elric Kane’s ‘The Dead Thing’ offered up a more a nuanced inquiry into modern feminine identity. It’s true that many didn’t think this gelled and just bored, but from the languid pace I found an interesting ghost story about the modern malaise of urban hook-up culture. Blu Hunt gives an assured turn as a woman who turns to fleeting sexual encounters to alleviate her dislocation and depression, leading to lust-motivated hauntings. Putting all-encompassing desire at the forefront of motivation gives this its quirk and the atmosphere is of a dreamy urban ambience.

Emma Benestan’s ‘Animale’ had another fascinating female character: she’s a bull runner that isn’t butch or competing with the machismo, but just trying to be a part of what she sees and wants. It's the slow burn that draws you in with Oulaya Amamra’s soft-and-tough performance riveting from the start. The measured world-building allows the etching of the community and character to soak in. If it ends up being more obvious than promised, not realising that it need not be, it is nevertheless fascinating, exhibiting a sure hand and sense of place and culture in the Carmague region bull running context. And what to do with a bull running woman, eh men?

Michael Sarnoski’s ‘A Quiet Place: Day One’, ‘Broken Bird’ and ‘Magpie’  all offered interesting female leads, if not quite wholly successful: the first replacing action with the maudlin; the second having tonal problems until reaching a decent Gothic finale; the last reaching only Get-‘em-girl! cliches. And there was plenty of Final Girl Kick Ass action from the likes of ‘Azrael’ and ‘The Bitter Taste’ , but even better were the historical revenge dramas ‘The Last Ashes’ and even Stone Age ‘Outof Darkness’ that delivered more tricksy and thoughtful contemplations on female violence.

But it was ‘Furiosa: A Mad Max saga’ that delivered the full-throttle raw and thoughtful female-led drama, despite stretching across Furiosa’s coming-of-age. In fact, that this and ‘Mad Max: Fury Road’ both rage against toxic masculinity whilst delivering the very petrolhead action you came for are their exemplary achievements. 

But it was ‘Smile2’ that proved the surprise in its slippery structure, devotion to failing reality and empathic examination of celebrity. Its smarts and nuance meant it convinced me on the subject far more than ‘The Substance’: not as delirious or delightful, but there was proper meat on the bone.

But it was Pascal Plante’s ‘Red Rooms’ that felt truly dangerous. There are films where you feel you’ve gone deep in the hole, where you feel you might have been where you shouldn’t, and this is one of them. Juliette Gariépy’s performance became increasingly brilliant as the plot unfolded. Compelling, morally murky/challenging, a brilliantly structured thriller where what? and why? slides into WTF?! without ever fully answering any of that, never being quite what you think.

Dr. Who - season 14

Dr. Who: Season 14

1976

 

The Mask of Mandragora

Director ~ Rodney Bennett

Writer ~ Louis Marks

 

15th century San Martino by way of Portmeirion.

 

A somewhat Gothic TARDIS control room introduced. Men in robes trying to summon forces they barely know for an attempted power-grab in subterranean shrines continues the Gothic feel.

 

The Doctor versus a sparkler effect.

 

Elisabeth Sladen’s slightly tongue-in-cheek and knowing performance does much to keep things on the keel of entertainment, despite regularly being relegated to Damssel In Distress.

 

Although the mash-up of genres and tropes is what ‘Dr. Who’ excels at – TV-style  historical recreation, Gothic horror, science-fiction – this one is a little average. The ending is also both underwhelming and alarming: the Doctor does a little play-acting and leads the worshipers to fry themselves.

 

The Hand of Fear

Director ~ Lennie Mayne

Writers ~ Bob Baker & Dave Martin

 

The one with the creeping hand. And it doesn't top that moment.

 

How can they tell the difference between a quarry and an alien planet (a nice in-joke)?

 

Episode two is mostly filler (must make most of that nuclear plant or whatever: let's run around!). Episode three ends on a quite unexpected cliffhanger, as far as these things go.

 

Eldrad is a villain with some substance, Judith Paris conveying the confusion, until reincarnated as Stephen Thorne who just thunders around in pantomime mode.

 

And it's true that this season already has a lot of mind-control and possession of Sarah-Jane, so it's no wonder she left with a rather nice end note.

 

Enjoyable enough if perhaps not reaching its potential.

 

 

The Deadly Assassin

Director ~ David Maloney

Writer ~ Robert Holmes

 

The one with the truly nightmarish manifestation of The Master.

 

Tom Baker gleefully mugging "I don't need a companion!" at the camera.

 

The other Time Lords revealed as Elitest snobs and doddery old men. Holmes’ script deepens and sets the Time Lord mythos in motion.

 

A whole episode of that particular Seventies style "In A Nightmare!!" scenario (bombed in a quarry! stumbling through faux-jungle! pursued by semi-faceless hunter! almost crushed by a ... miniature train?). There is something appealingly dated about this – ‘Sapphire and Steel’ mastered the form and feeling.

 

The train makes for one of the most wet blanket of cliffhangers whereas the Doctor being drowned is the one that set apparently Mary Whitehouse all fiery and out to destroy Dr Who (and arguably, with some success: opinions on a postcard).

 

And The Master shrinking his victims always seemed uniquely horrible to me.

 

 

The Face Of Evil

Director – Pennant Roberts

Writer – Chris Boucher

 

The one with Mount Doctor Baker.

 

Hello Leela. One for the dads. Maybe, and even if Baker didn’t like her character (probably thought he didn’t need a sidekick - and didn’t I read he even suggested a cabbage as a companion?) she actually complements him well, however unlikely this may seem. Louise Jameson’s plays dead straight and resourceful rather than just savage-and-stupid.

 

Is Leela the only woman in the tribe…?

 

There’s substance to what looks like a dodgy tribe enactment being that way for good pulpy sci-fi reasons as there is to The Doctor realising his do-gooding has consequences that might lead to invisible monsters resembling a nod to ‘Forbidden Planet’. This and a computer driven mad by The Doctor’s input, forcing him to confront his hubris a little fun.

 

Some decent facing-off-in-a-corridor work.

 

The Doctor screaming at himself is quite memorable.

 

The Robots of Death

Director ~ Michael E. Briant

Writer ~ Chris Boucher

 

Special effects by toys and some superior corridors. And there’s no avoiding that, even as Seventies kids, we all knew those red eyes were made with bicycle reflectors. But these are typical shortcomings for old ‘Who’ and doesn’t distract at how memorable and great the robot designs are.

 

The robot designs hint at pretences of elegance and plushness, but it is of course an early warning against AI and the influence of Asimov’s Law of Robotics always lurks in the background of such things. Certainly, the robot’s uncanny valley unnerved me as a boy.

 

There is also a little social commentary, the kind that vintage ‘Dr. Who’ has always been good at, has always had in its DNA: the managerial crew of the mining ship are just barely useful layabouts, letting the robots do the work. There’s some nice set design by Kenneth Sharp that makes the ship resemble a plush hotel rather than a workspace.

 

 

Talons of Weng-Chiang

Director ~ David Mahoney

Writer ~ Robert Holmes

 

For me, Dr Who at its zenith. The mash-up of all that Victorian pulp creates a delightful concoction: vaudeville, Sherlock Holmes, Fu-Manchu, opium dens, Jack the Ripper, Eliza Doolittle, even a little Phantom of the Opera are all namechecked. The giant rat is an unfortunately lacking effect (best to turn on the new effects option) but Mr Sin remains creepy and arguably even additionally disgusting when we know its origin.

 

Of course, much of this is undone by use of yellowface for John Bennet as Li H'sen Chang. Even so, Bennet gives Chang and almost regal dignity with a great, deluded but sympathetic send-off. And there’s a flicker of knowingness when Chang makes the retort that “I understand we all the look the same.” But there’s no getting past the yellowface and of-the-period racism, or references to “midgets”, even if it feels of-a-piece to penny dreadfuls and the Yellow Peril.

 

But Robert Homes packs it full of great dialogue for everyone, for a six-parter there’s no real padding and just when you think you have it pegged, there’s the introduction of a great Jago and Lightfoot duo. Plenty of horrible detail alluded to, assassins in laundry baskets, a bad guy defeated just by pulling out the battery…

This has always been a favourite since I was a kid, and even with its disqualifying ingredient – which isn’t even incidental – there’s so much to enjoy. A quintessential Dr. Who romp. And Mr. Sin is still unnerving.