Hi! I'm a native Russian speaker looking to practice my English with native speakers. My level is probably around B2, maybe edging into C1 in some areas, but I'd say B2 is the safer estimate.

If you're learning Russian or just want to chat, I'd be happy to help — feel free to reach out. I'm into film, music, history, and linguistics, among other things, so there's a decent chance we'd find something to talk about beyond just language practice

Hi! I'm a native Russian speaker looking to practice my English with native speakers. My level is probably around B2, maybe edging into C1 in some areas, but I'd say B2 is the safer estimate.

If you're learning Russian or just want to chat, I'd be happy to help — feel free to reach out. I'm into film, music, history, and linguistics, among other things, so there's a decent chance we'd find something to talk about beyond just language practice

Hi! I'm a native Russian speaker looking to practice my English with native speakers. My level is probably around B2, maybe edging into C1 in some areas, but I'd say B2 is the safer estimate.

If you're learning Russian or just want to chat, or maybe do some cultural exchange, I'd be happy to help — feel free to reach out. I'm into film, music, history, and linguistics, among other things, so there's a decent chance we'd find something to talk about beyond just language practice. Write something about yourself in the comments if you wish.

A few days ago I wrote a short essay in this subreddit about why I didn't like Nolan's Odyssey. The couple of days of comment-section warfare and other people's video essays that followed have helped me articulate rather better why I think the film doesn't work.

Disclaimer again: Like the original one, this post was originally written in Russian, so the English may seem strange in places.

If anyone can't be bothered to read my original piece — the bulk of my criticism there boils down to Odysseus being a boring character. In this post I want to talk about how that happened.

So why does this "modern reinterpretation" work so badly in the film?

Let me pre-emptively deal with the main objection. People will tell me: sure, a Bronze Age Greek can't feel something like Christian guilt, but this is a reinterpretation, and the author has every right to give his hero whatever inner workings he likes. Absolutely. The inner state of a fictional person is simply assigned by the author. If the film says Odysseus is tormented by guilt, then he is.

So why does it work badly?

Odysseus's guilt does literally nothing. It doesn't change a single one of his decisions, not one route, not one action. He performs exactly the same deeds as in Homer, except now they're severed from their cause. At the end he slaughters the suitors — a man who spent three hours agonising over the fact that he killed, kills again without the slightest difficulty. What's more, in everyday matters he's harder than his own crew: it's him who suggests leaving the bodies of the dead behind, because travelling light is easier, and the crew who object. So the guilt never fires once and never affects him in any way. The guilt isn't a mechanism. It's a hashtag.

On top of that, Odysseus is the only carrier of guilt in the entire universe of this film. Menelaus lives in his Victor's Hell and lies about the great victory, but he's unhappy, not guilty — he simply thinks he paid a very high price for the war. Agamemnon came home without a single sign of reflection. The suitors ransack another man's house without a moment's doubt. And nobody around Odysseus finds his condition strange, nobody asks what's wrong with him. He states several times that he feels guilt, and it bothers no one. Which means the film treats this guilt as self-evident. As our norm, transplanted into the Bronze Age without a label and attached to one single character. If guilt were an anomaly in the world of the film, it could have become the subject of the story — the way it works in The Invention of Lying with Ricky Gervais. Instead what we see on screen is the only man in the world who possesses a conscience in the modern sense, everybody can see it, and everybody is fine with it.

Next point. Guilt in the modern sense is a very specific post-Christian, post-Enlightenment emotion. It grew out of the Christian idea of sin, which damages the soul, and the soul is later assessed at the Last Judgement. So originally it's guilt before God, which the Enlightenment converted into guilt before oneself — before the entity that replaces God in a secularised world. But the world of the film already has an authority that punishes transgressions, and it works. For the blinded eye of Poseidon's son, years of wandering. For the cattle of Helios, the death of the entire crew, and they were warned in advance. Everything operates quickly and visibly. And for the sack of Troy — nothing. The silence of the authority that is the supreme court in this world is itself an acquittal.

So the supreme court is physically present, it acts, and it hands down no verdict. And Odysseus is waiting for a verdict from a different supreme court — the one presupposed by a modern outlook, and which does not exist in this world.

Odysseus says he suffers because they crept into a sleeping city by deception and butchered it. Now let's run the disappearing horse test. Imagine Troy had been taken in open battle, with no horse at all, and butchered in exactly the same way — and it would have been. Would anything about the hero's condition change? Judging by the film, nothing. Which means the deception isn't the cause of the guilt, it's a pretext. Odysseus never remembers the Trojans rejoicing over the horse and thanking the gods that the war was finally over, while he sat inside it and listened. There is something faintly resembling that scene — but it's Menelaus telling it to Telemachus. Odysseus spends the whole film remembering the slaughter.

And the most obvious thing of all. For two and a half hours we're told that war is bad, that violence begets violence. Then comes the climax: the massacre of the suitors — planned, with their weapons removed beforehand, that is, with a guarantee that there will be no resistance. Not self-defence, but cold calculation. People will object that there was no other way out, that this is precisely the point: the cycle of violence can't be broken. But nothing in the film establishes that there was no other way. We don't know how the suitors would have behaved if Odysseus had kicked the door open and announced that daddy's home.

And then he leaves, while a voiceover tells us that civilisation will rise again and our descendants will forget our mistakes. Order has just been restored on screen. And the only person who falls outside it is the man who restored it. Why? No idea. Nobody condemns him, everyone considers him a hero, and if the damage is inside him, then it's going to travel with him.

The taking of Troy is one event, not two — the horse was invented precisely in order to butcher a sleeping city. And the hero ought to be tormented by something that fits his world perfectly: we broke the rules of war, we took the city by deception, we killed men in their sleep. Martial honour, violated conventions of war — all of this is fully available to the characters of this film. But what gets articulated instead is a different position: I killed people who had a right to live, and after that I'm not the man I was.

Except that guilt for a killing like that has to be shown in a scene where the victim is present as a human being. You need a Trojan with a face and a name, standing in front of him. In the film Odysseus kills exclusively Trojan soldiers who are fighting back (run the disappearing horse test on that too). There is a nameless temple maiden — the one who later becomes the face of Athena — but it isn't Odysseus who kills her, he merely watches it happen. The viewer gets the horror, the hero doesn't get the deed. Which brings us to the next part.

Why the "modern reinterpretation" doesn't work before the film even starts

Nolan got himself far too attached to a canon that celebrated human courage, decisiveness, cunning and strength of spirit — and decided to install in his hero a modern psychological module the hero simply wasn't designed for. Homer's heroes live in a world where the gods constantly intervene in events, reshape the world to suit themselves, and literally compel people into particular actions. And in a world where you can't influence anything, heroism is all that's left. The gods run everything, but at least you can win glory. At least you can avoid betraying yourself and your comrades. At least you can be remembered as a hero.

He could have let the canon go. Have no literal cyclops: have them run into a one-eyed shepherd named Polyphemus, have one of the soldiers try to steal a sheep from him, a brawl breaks out, and Odysseus accidentally puts out the shepherd's remaining eye. That would be guilt — for a specific, real, irreversible act against an innocent man. And it would finally have an object on screen. But there's none of that in the film. Instead we get told afterwards, on podcasts, that the cyclops is REALLY a projection of Odysseus's guilt — presumably because it's the only creature in the film that Odysseus does any actual harm to.

But that version requires a different kind of hero: proud, vain, making decisions he later pays for. And this, I think, is where the real reason for everything we see on screen is buried. Look at what happens if you leave Odysseus his character. He goes to war not because Agamemnon frightens him, but because he wants glory. (In the original he isn't eager to go either, but for a different reason. In the film he simply doesn't want to.) He butchers Troy and he's fine with it. He shoots at the cyclops out of pride, and his men die because of it. He spends a year with Circe because he's having a good time there, and because she's offering to make sweet love to him.

And the viewer spends three hours watching a man who is… well, not a particularly good person by modern standards.

And for an anti-war film that's a trap. Make Odysseus genuinely revel in himself, and the massacre at Troy becomes a spectacle you enjoy watching. Which is the exact opposite of an anti-war statement. For a film conceived as a statement about the price of war, that's a fatal error. So the choice was this: either a charismatic bastard the viewer enjoys watching, thereby wrecking the moral — or a hollow hero who doesn't get in the moral's way but also can't carry three hours. They picked the second one. And it solved a side problem too: a hollow hero doesn't need justifying. You can issue him any guilt you like, and nobody will ask whether it fits his character, because there is no character. Against a man with no properties, an inconsistency with anything at all is simply undetectable. For "I'm not the man I was" to work, you need the man he was. And this film has neither the former Odysseus nor the current one — just the same sad bloke from beginning to end.

So you get a closed loop. The character was removed to make room for the guilt. The guilt weighs nothing because the character was removed. That's where the hollow Odysseus came from. Not from the anti-war concept, but from an unwillingness to make the protagonist unpleasant.

And Nolan had already made Oppenheimer, which overlaps with all of this thematically. That really is an excellent film, because Oppenheimer in it is a living person. He's ambiguous, he cheats on his wife, he can be arrogant, he's driven, he's ambitious. That's why he builds the bomb (not because of the cheating, obviously — because of the rest), and stopping the war is a secondary motivation for him, on the level of "so much the better". And that film works. We understand what the character did, why he did it, and how he came to grasp what he had done.

The Odyssey is Oppenheimer if it began after the scene with Truman. Everything has already happened, and the hero's guilt simply exists, detached from his actions. It's stuck on like a name tag, so that it can be pointed at and called a reinterpretation. What was Nolan afraid of? Maybe it's because Oppenheimer's "crimes" happened off-screen, whereas Odysseus was a direct participant, and you'd have had to literally put a sword in his hand and have him kill innocent people with it.

And so we come back to the most primitive but also the most important complaint about this film — it's simply boring to watch.

In conclusion

And here's the most galling part of it. None of this needed shoehorning in the first place. The source myth already contains a powerful anti-war statement.

For Homer, the Trojan War is a horror. It's the war in which every single one of the great heroes died, and after which the age of micro-dudes began.

Achilles, talking to the envoys, says that no amount of plunder is worth his life, and that death comes alike to the brave man and the coward. And in the land of the dead, the greatest warrior of them all tells Odysseus that being dead turns out to be not much fun, and that he'd rather work as a hired hand for a poor farmer than rule over all the dead. There's the price of glory, delivered by the most glorified hero of all, literally second only to Heracles. (And Nolan, for some reason, cut that scene from the film.)

And the same line runs through the entire Trojan cycle. Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter in order to sail, and gets a knife in the neck from her mother. Menelaus recovers Helen and lives with her in mutual hatred. Ajax kills himself over the shame. Achilles weeps to his mother. The chieftains drown on the way home or find their houses ruined. Odysseus meets his mother among the dead — she died of grief, never seeing her son come back from the war. The victors get nothing.

And all of this is in the film — Ithaca in ruin, Agamemnon knifed at home, Menelaus in his Victor's Hell. And those are the best scenes in the picture, because they're taken straight from a myth that has survived three thousand years, rather than invented by one more contemporary director, however wildly talented. All Nolan had to do was not stir an alien guilt for the slain into it. The myth was already saying what Nolan wanted to say — and saying it in a form you can show, rather than state out loud.

The film largely functions as a hyperlink to the original Odyssey. "Odysseus is cunning because you remember that he's cunning in Homer. Odysseus is an authoritative leader because he's one in Homer. Odysseus is a great hero because he's a great hero in Homer." Except that in the film he isn't. And if you look at a lot of the intellectual critics praising this film, it's very telling. I think they liked it because they remember Homer, and they saw in the film what's in Homer but isn't in Nolan — and since the title is the same, the two merged into one in their assessment. It's literally Proust's madeleine.

There's an old arthouse film by Tarkovsky called Andrei Rublev, which you may have heard of or seen. In it the director examines whether an artist can be free of his own age. And the whole story around Nolan's Odyssey is a living illustration of that theme. Nolan wanted to make a film about our time, and what he made is a film that is sick with our time. The film is practically shouting: "This is all about us, WE ARE GUILTY OF EVERYTHING." It grows out of a postmodern (or metamodern?) paradigm of imposing guilt for circumstances that are stronger than we are: how can we sleep peacefully while there's injustice in the world? HOW CAN WE LOOK AT OURSELVES IN THE MIRROR WHILE THERE ARE WARS GOING ON?!

And Nolan, like every modern person, lives inside that paradigm.

So we get what we get — three hours of Odysseus's Virgin Walk, pompously loading the guilt for all the world's troubles onto himself.

Long one. Spoilers throughout, though the film follows the myth closely enough that I doubt I'm ruining much.

NB: This is a translation of my post which was originally written in russian. So english may seem a bit strange at some moments.

Let's get this out of the way first, so nobody accuses me of being a hater: I'm not a card-carrying member of the Church of Nolan, Savior of Cinema, but I do like his films. I like Oppenheimer, and The Prestige, and… what else is there… I like the Batman films, and, God forgive me, I even in some weird way like Dunkirk. The Odyssey might well be the first Nolan film that did absolutely nothing for me. The film runs almost three hours, and I checked my watch for the first time an hour and a half in. That feels fairly telling.

So what exactly is wrong with it?

No, you didn't guess it — it's not Agamemnon in Darth Vader/Batman armor (he's on screen for about three minutes). Let's get to the actual point.

One caveat up front: there will be spoilers. But don't worry — in terms of plot events, the film doesn't stray all that far from the original myth, so I hope you'll forgive me for spoiling a story that's two and a half thousand years old. And besides, I'll try not to get carried away.

Most of you have probably already read that this is supposedly a film not so much about an adventure as about living through war trauma, about the bitterness of war, all that. And in a vacuum, that's not a bad idea. One of the recurring complaints about Nolan is that in his films the idea always works harder than the emotion. And… for this film specifically, that's a problem, because PTSD as a subject is about emotion, not about rational analysis.

The film isn't really about the traumatic experience of war for one particular person; it's about the bitterness of war in the broad sense. On top of that, for Nolan as a Brit, the trauma of the First World War matters. The film literally spells it out, to paraphrase: "We're afraid of the Sea Peoples, but we destroyed everything ourselves. We had peace, language and trade, and Agamemnon's ambitions wiped it all out. We are the Sea Peoples. After the fall of Troy nothing will be the way it was before the fall of Troy. We destroyed our own Bronze Age. But time will pass, civilization will rise again, and our descendants will forget our mistakes." So: the civilizational destructiveness of war. Odysseus periodically remembers how they climbed out of the horse and slaughtered everyone, and thinks, "What have I done?" — so there's the personal trauma of war. Agamemnon was murdered by his own wife on his return (sorry for the spoiler, but he has exactly three appearances on screen and zero lines in the whole film, and it's hardly a big secret anyway); Menelaus lost his brother and lives with a wife who hates him; Ithaca is being bled dry by the suitors and by the paralysis of power — so the price of victory is in there too.

And you read all that and think: "Damn, what a great concept." But the problems start the moment you actually sit down and watch the thing. Let's take it in order.

Nolan and the Cyclops

Well, Nolan is Nolan, no arguments there. The visuals, the sound, the editing, the sound editing, the performances — all top tier. The film is deeply tactile; you can literally feel the tension in some scenes. A few of the dialogue scenes are absolute gems. But for some reason (I'll get to my theory on this later), everything that concerns Odysseus's actual journey is shot pretty poorly — sometimes in terms of staging, sometimes in terms of storytelling. I won't catalogue everything I disliked; let's stop at what I consider the single most disastrous episode in the film — the cyclops's cave.

Let's start with the fact that in the original this is the cornerstone of the entire Odyssey. Without the cyclops there would be no ten years of wandering. In the original, he and Odysseus have a psychological duel that Odysseus masterminds his way out of. In the film, the cyclops essentially doesn't speak at all. And I've heard the counterargument that, well, these men had been at war so long they'd forgotten how to solve anything through conversation, et cetera, et cetera. BUT! The problem with this scene is something else entirely. It's just badly staged.

Yes, there's suspense at the start, when the cyclops first appears and starts devouring the crew. But after that, there's no tension whatsoever in the rest of the sequence. He comes, he goes. They sit around in his cave. They don't interact with each other in any way. And a couple of days later they're like, "okay, let's stick a fork in his eye and pretend to be sheep." Yes, over those few days he's supposedly been eating them one at a time. But it's unclear how many of them are even in there, or whether he can see them at all, because he doesn't react to them in any way. I was genuinely sitting there thinking, "does he even see them? Does he realize there are people hanging around in his cave? Why doesn't he interact with them at all?" For most of the episode the cyclops is just an animatronic arm that occasionally snatches a soldier and drags him off into the dark. Anyone who played Heroes of Might and Magic V might remember the low-level spell where a fist appears in mid-air and punches your opponent. That's roughly what the cyclops looks like.

The Laestrygonian giants show up for five minutes. The idea of sailing past the sirens and dodging their song via the ears of Odysseus's second-in-command is very cool. But the episode lasts three minutes. The Circe scene is directed beautifully, but it has a different problem — narratively, it exists in the form it does purely to voice a feminist message. So, remember I promised you a theory?

Here it is. Nolan wasn't especially interested in filming the adventures of Odysseus. But more on that later.

Nolan and the Micro-Dudes

Quick note on the term, since I'll be using it a lot: a micro-dude in my country is meme shorthand for a random, unremarkable person. A normie.

Right. Another frequently voiced complaint about Nolan is that he can't create interesting characters. His characters are always functions. Take Tenet. There's supposedly a protagonist. He supposedly does things, says things. But he isn't a character. He's just a POV for the viewer. A camera on legs. And Odysseus here is exactly the same. The trouble is that Tenet is an original story that doesn't especially require a strong protagonist. There's even a meta-commentary from Nolan himself in there — the hero is literally called The Protagonist in the screenplay. But the myth of Odysseus is built entirely on the personality of Odysseus. And Nolan strips that personality out of him to serve his concept.

So in the film, Odysseus and his crew consist of: a default guy; his second-in-command Eurylochus, who at least gets the occasional line; and an indeterminate number of no-name micro-dudes. They have no names. I don't remember their faces. And if the film is about the price of war, why am I supposed to feel anything when a bunch of anonymous units get killed?

Meanwhile, according to the plot of the film (the film specifically), Odysseus is very impressive. He's impressive because Penelope says he's impressive. Because John Leguizamo says he's impressive. He even saved a puppy in his youth. But when I look at the screen, I don't understand why he's impressive. He's literally a default guy. He's a micro-dude. All of his greatness lives somewhere off-screen, in other characters' dialogue.

But that's only half the problem. If we do try to assign Odysseus some characteristics in this film beyond "sad man with the eyes of a dog," then I suppose he's calm and level-headed. There are no scenes where he loses it or acts on impulse. And from this follows a problem even bigger than the absence of character — some of Odysseus's actions in the film are dictated by the canon of the myth rather than by the logic of the character:

Odysseus is calm and level-headed, yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops after the escape, which incidentally costs a couple more of his crew their lives. In the original, he wanted the cyclops to know who had outwitted him — out of pride. Here he's immediately asked why the hell he did that, and he answers: that was for my boys. Except that several times in this same film he argued for leaving his boys' bodies behind, because it makes for an easier getaway. So he's a pragmatist — and yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops.

Odysseus displays no willfulness anywhere in the film, and then suddenly: "Hey, tie me up, I want to hear the sirens sing." In the original, he loved risk; he was curious.

Which raises my question: why on earth would this character in this film behave that way? The answer is that he's broken at the screenplay level.

But it's not all bad in the screenplay.

There's the Telemachus thread. Telemachus is a genuinely functional character. He's legible — he's waiting for his father, the suitors push him around, he's sick of the suitors, he doesn't like that his mother won't throw them out, he doesn't know how to restore order, he sails to Sparta to see Menelaus just to learn something about his father. He has normal character traits — he's young, not stupid, occasionally hot-headed, a bit vain, and he learns from his mistakes.

And the film might have worked better as a piece of drama if Odysseus weren't in it at all — if he were off somewhere like the ghost of Hamlet's father, and all his appearances came through the accounts of Menelaus or whoever else. Odysseus would exist as an ephemeral, literally mythical figure, and would only show up at the very end. The whole thing would unfold, as The Strokes sang, "in the light of the living ghost."

But it would have been unwatchable, because even as it stands the Telemachus thread is a bit of a slog — it's all talk, and watching that for three hours would have been unbearable.

Which brings us back to my thesis that Nolan wasn't interested in making a film about Odysseus. I don't claim to know what he wanted or what interested him, but hear me out.

There's a comic series called Fables, where the characters of classic fairy tales live in modern New York. The Big Bad Wolf is an alcoholic detective everyone hates. Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow is a corrupt bureaucrat, Snow White is an administrative official, Mr. Toad is white trash, the Little Mermaid is a courtesan, Beauty and the Beast are broke because they were spoiled and never learned to control their spending. I believe the genre is called post-mythological noir. Their fairy tales are over, and the characters have to go on living.

And the world of Nolan's Odyssey is the same thing. Ithaca is a mess. Agamemnon has been murdered at home with a dagger to the neck by his own wife. Menelaus lives in the Victor's Hell. There's an excellent scene showing Menelaus speaking about Troy as a great victory when he stopped believing that long ago. It really is a well-staged scene with a powerful performance.

And all of these scenes convey the idea and the emotion far better than Odysseus's entire arc. Which is why I have a very strong feeling that, especially after the success of Oppenheimer, this is what Nolan was interested in filming.

Except the money he was given was for an IMAX blockbuster called The Odyssey. So it's as though Nolan was going, "ugh, and this damn Odysseus guy too," someone he had to bolt on somewhere, and then: "ugh, now I have to shoot this nonsense about cyclopes and sirens."

Which is a shame. I'd happily watch a grim noir detective story about Telemachus searching for the truth about his father among the broken veterans of the Trojan War.

So we keep digging and digging, and we've almost dug down to the fundamental problem with the whole film. Nolan's concept was to make an anti-war film. And the myth of Odysseus was chosen as the vehicle. And to make the anti-war concept work, he had to throw out of Odysseus the very things that make Odysseus Odysseus and make the story function — pride and vanity. Because a proud, vain hero isn't going to torment himself with guilt over killing Trojans. Odysseus is a hero from the 12th century BC. He couldn't have cared less. He killed them all in the name of Zeus and of himself, and it felt great.

But let's get into the details.

Nolan, Deconstruction and Darth Vader (and also a Shoehorn)

We live in a world of reinterpreting art. Hashtag postmodern, hashtag metamodern, hashtag deconstruction. You can't just make a work anymore without a wink at the audience. Fine, so be it.

Where was I. It's obvious Nolan wanted to make an anti-war film. But the myth of Odysseus — literally every event of the myth of Odysseus proceeds from who Odysseus is. I understand Nolan's concept: he wanted to show Odysseus at a time when the myth about him hadn't been written yet — reflective, unsure, weak. And because of that, the film's Odysseus turned from a hero of myth into a Vietnam veteran. But since the myth has a fixed canon, that Vietnam veteran had to be shoehorned into that canon. And he doesn't fit very well.

Here's what we get from Nolan's weak Odysseus. They land on Circe's island, and the crew says, "You know what, Odysseus, we've had enough of you, you stay and guard the boat." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

When they sail toward Scylla and Charybdis, Odysseus says, "We're going through the whirlpool." The crew answers, "Are you an idiot? We'll all die there, we're going through the strait." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

He doesn't behave like a hero of myth. He behaves like yet another micro-dude (I know you're all sick of that word, but I can't help myself) who can't even give an order to his own crew.

And if we grant that the "weak Odysseus" concept is a good one, then the question becomes: "why did a myth arise about this guy in the first place?" He doesn't make a single serious decision, he never proves himself in any way, he just sails from one quest marker to the next.

And returning to the notion that this is a deconstruction of a character, a deconstruction of a myth, and so on. Deconstruction doesn't work if you have to say it out loud. And that's exactly what happens in the film. That whole anti-war message I opened this piece with — it just… isn't in the film. It's simply articulated by the characters at various moments. The characters explain that war is bad, that heroes are broken, that the cycles repeat. Nolan's events follow the myth. And the meaning is just laid on top of it through dialogue. The viewer hears that Odysseus is broken but never sees it, because Odysseus is just an ordinary guy who occasionally remembers that he's sad.

You can't just change a character and declare it's the same character.

You can't write a scene where Achilles weeps over the corpse of the Hector he killed because "war is hell" and then say, "Ooooooh, deconstruuuuction." That isn't deconstruction, that's just very lazy shoehorning. What you get is a character who does one thing, says another, and feels a third. That's just a badly written character.

It's the equivalent of remaking Star Wars so that Darth Vader is good, but behaves exactly as he does in the original. Only he isn't evil — he speaks gently to everyone, says hello, gives up his seat.

Why did we decide that Odysseus is supposed to be tormented by guilt in the first place? Deconstruction isn't when you literally rewrite the original to suit yourself; it's when you illuminate the contradictions of the source text. If you're going to deconstruct, show me the hero as a bastard, not as an NPC. A real deconstruction might have looked like this: show how that famous, canonical cunning of Odysseus destroys him. How he shoots at the cyclops not because "that's for my boys" but because he wants to be great and is boasting to the cyclops about who outwitted him. How he comes to understand that his own legendary status is his curse. That's deconstruction — the hero stays himself, but it leads to terrible consequences.

A Darth Vader who is good on the inside but keeps on choking his subordinates and blowing up planets isn't a more complex, tragic Vader; he's a character whose behavior is dictated not by his own logic but has become a mere set of actions mandated by canon and severed from their cause.

So why shouldn't it have been attempted at all?

Why did we decide that Odysseus even CAN be tormented by guilt? Why did we decide that any story can be deconstructed in any way whatsoever? Guilt over the massacre at Troy isn't some neutral additive you can staple onto any hero of antiquity — it's a specifically modern, post-Christian, post-Enlightenment emotion that requires a particular model of perceiving the world: individual conscience, a European culture of guilt, the absence of a culture of family honor, the absence of any deference to the will of the gods. It requires a sense of personal moral responsibility for an act sanctioned by war and by religion. A man whose ethics are built on glory, on the will of Athena and Zeus, doesn't possess the psychological apparatus to generate that particular emotion in response to that particular event. He can fear the wrath of the gods (because he put out the eye of Poseidon's son), but he cannot experience guilt in the sense of "I hurt innocent people, and it's eating me alive." That category doesn't yet exist in the toolkit of meaning available to him.

So when Nolan makes Odysseus feel exactly this guilt, he isn't deepening the character or deconstructing the myth — he's simply inserting an alien psychological module into a shell that was never designed for it. It's like trying to install a brand-new app store on a Nokia 3310.

And here, incidentally, is a perfect illustration of how this shoehorning works in practice. Take the cyclops again. The film shows us a cyclops — a literal, mythological one, with a single eye and a cave. And then, in interviews and on podcasts, we're told that the cyclops is really a projection of Odysseus's guilt. But if you want to deconstruct that badly, then just let the canon go, release it already. Have there be no literal cyclops. Have them run into a one-eyed shepherd named Polyphemus; one of the soldiers decides to swipe a sheep from him; a scuffle breaks out; and in the fight Odysseus accidentally knocks out the shepherd's remaining eye. That would be guilt — over a specific, real, irreversible act against an innocent man. Instead we get a cyclops (because that's what canon demands, and because a blockbuster is required), and then, separately, outside the film itself, we get an explanation: "but ACTUALLY it's a metaphor." Don't show me a metaphor for guilt. Show me guilt.

And from there, you either honestly admit that this is now a different man in different scenery, which would mean giving up on preserving the canon of events one-to-one (and there would be nothing wrong with that, frankly), or you shoehorn that alien psychology into the original plot — which is what happened.

I don't think there is a correct way to make this character feel this emotion while remaining himself. Not because the screenplay is weak, but because the premise itself ("Odysseus tormented by modern guilt") is logically incompatible with what Odysseus and the myth of Odysseus structurally are. This isn't an underdeveloped deconstruction; it's an attempt to deconstruct something that, by definition, isn't suited to this particular deconstruction.

In Conclusion

If you love Nolan. If you love spectacle. If you don't require a film with a message to also deliver a strong emotion — absolutely go see it. It's a very expensively made, very spectacular film. All my friends liked it. I didn't much.

Long one. Spoilers throughout, though the film follows the myth closely enough that I doubt I'm ruining much.

Let's get this out of the way first, so nobody accuses me of being a hater: I'm not a card-carrying member of the Church of Nolan, Savior of Cinema, but I do like his films. I like Oppenheimer, and The Prestige, and… what else is there… I like the Batman films, and, God forgive me, I even like Dunkirk. The Odyssey might well be the first Nolan film that did absolutely nothing for me. The film runs almost three hours, and I checked my watch for the first time an hour and a half in. That feels fairly telling.

So what exactly is wrong with it?

No, you didn't guess it — it's not Agamemnon in Darth Vader/Batman armor (he's on screen for about three minutes). Let's get to the actual point.

One caveat up front: there will be spoilers. But don't worry — in terms of plot events, the film doesn't stray all that far from the original myth, so I hope you'll forgive me for spoiling a story that's two and a half thousand years old. And besides, I'll try not to get carried away.

Most of you have probably already read that this is supposedly a film not so much about an adventure as about living through war trauma, about the bitterness of war, all that. And in a vacuum, that's not a bad idea. One of the recurring complaints about Nolan is that in his films the idea always works harder than the emotion. And… for this film specifically, that's a problem, because PTSD as a subject is about emotion, not about rational analysis.

The film isn't really about the traumatic experience of war for one particular person; it's about the bitterness of war in the broad sense. On top of that, for Nolan as a Brit, the trauma of the First World War matters. The film literally spells it out, to paraphrase: "We're afraid of the Sea Peoples, but we destroyed everything ourselves. We had peace, language and trade, and Agamemnon's ambitions wiped it all out. We are the Sea Peoples. After the fall of Troy nothing will be the way it was before the fall of Troy. We destroyed our own Bronze Age. But time will pass, civilization will rise again, and our descendants will forget our mistakes." So: the civilizational destructiveness of war. Odysseus periodically remembers how they climbed out of the horse and slaughtered everyone, and thinks, "What have I done?" — so there's the personal trauma of war. Agamemnon was murdered by his own wife on his return (sorry for the spoiler, but he has exactly three appearances on screen and zero lines in the whole film, and it's hardly a big secret anyway); Menelaus lost his brother and lives with a wife who hates him; Ithaca is being bled dry by the suitors and by the paralysis of power — so the price of victory is in there too.

And you read all that and think: "Damn, what a great concept." But the problems start the moment you actually sit down and watch the thing. Let's take it in order.

Nolan and the Cyclops

Well, Nolan is Nolan, no arguments there. The visuals, the sound, the editing, the sound editing, the performances — all top tier. The film is deeply tactile; you can literally feel the tension in some scenes. A few of the dialogue scenes are absolute gems. But for some reason (I'll get to my theory on this later), everything that concerns Odysseus's actual journey is shot pretty poorly — sometimes in terms of staging, sometimes in terms of storytelling. I won't catalogue everything I disliked; let's stop at what I consider the single most disastrous episode in the film — the cyclops's cave.

Let's start with the fact that in the original this is the cornerstone of the entire Odyssey. Without the cyclops there would be no ten years of wandering. In the original, he and Odysseus have a psychological duel that Odysseus masterminds his way out of. In the film, the cyclops essentially doesn't speak at all. And I've heard the counterargument that, well, these men had been at war so long they'd forgotten how to solve anything through conversation, et cetera, et cetera. BUT! The problem with this scene is something else entirely. It's just badly staged.

Yes, there's suspense at the start, when the cyclops first appears and starts devouring the crew. But after that, there's no tension whatsoever in the rest of the sequence. He comes, he goes. They sit around in his cave. They don't interact with each other in any way. And a couple of days later they're like, "okay, let's stick a fork in his eye and pretend to be sheep." Yes, over those few days he's supposedly been eating them one at a time. But it's unclear how many of them are even in there, or whether he can see them at all, because he doesn't react to them in any way. I was genuinely sitting there thinking, "does he even see them? Does he realize there are people hanging around in his cave? Why doesn't he interact with them at all?" For most of the episode the cyclops is just an animatronic arm that occasionally snatches a soldier and drags him off into the dark. Anyone who played Heroes of Might and Magic V might remember the low-level spell where a fist appears in mid-air and punches your opponent. That's roughly what the cyclops looks like.

The Laestrygonian giants show up for five minutes. The idea of sailing past the sirens and dodging their song via the ears of Odysseus's second-in-command is very cool. But the episode lasts three minutes. The Circe scene is directed beautifully, but it has a different problem — narratively, it exists in the form it does purely to voice a feminist message. So, remember I promised you a theory?

Here it is. Nolan wasn't especially interested in filming the adventures of Odysseus. But more on that later.

Nolan and the Micro-Dudes

Quick note on the term, since I'll be using it a lot: a micro-dude in my country is meme shorthand for a random, unremarkable person. A normie.

Right. Another frequently voiced complaint about Nolan is that he can't create interesting characters. His characters are always functions. Take Tenet. There's supposedly a protagonist. He supposedly does things, says things. But he isn't a character. He's just a POV for the viewer. A camera on legs. And Odysseus here is exactly the same. The trouble is that Tenet is an original story that doesn't especially require a strong protagonist. There's even a meta-commentary from Nolan himself in there — the hero is literally called The Protagonist in the screenplay. But the myth of Odysseus is built entirely on the personality of Odysseus. And Nolan strips that personality out of him to serve his concept.

So in the film, Odysseus and his crew consist of: a default guy; his second-in-command Eurylochus, who at least gets the occasional line; and an indeterminate number of no-name micro-dudes. They have no names. I don't remember their faces. And if the film is about the price of war, why am I supposed to feel anything when a bunch of anonymous units get killed?

Meanwhile, according to the plot of the film (the film specifically), Odysseus is very impressive. He's impressive because Penelope says he's impressive. Because John Leguizamo says he's impressive. He even saved a puppy in his youth. But when I look at the screen, I don't understand why he's impressive. He's literally a default guy. He's a micro-dude. All of his greatness lives somewhere off-screen, in other characters' dialogue.

But that's only half the problem. If we do try to assign Odysseus some characteristics in this film beyond "sad man with the eyes of a dog," then I suppose he's calm and level-headed. There are no scenes where he loses it or acts on impulse. And from this follows a problem even bigger than the absence of character — some of Odysseus's actions in the film are dictated by the canon of the myth rather than by the logic of the character:

Odysseus is calm and level-headed, yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops after the escape, which incidentally costs a couple more of his crew their lives. In the original, he wanted the cyclops to know who had outwitted him — out of pride. Here he's immediately asked why the hell he did that, and he answers: that was for my boys. Except that several times in this same film he argued for leaving his boys' bodies behind, because it makes for an easier getaway. So he's a pragmatist — and yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops.

Odysseus displays no willfulness anywhere in the film, and then suddenly: "Hey, tie me up, I want to hear the sirens sing." In the original, he loved risk; he was curious.

Which raises my question: why on earth would this character in this film behave that way? The answer is that he's broken at the screenplay level.

But it's not all bad in the screenplay.

There's the Telemachus thread. Telemachus is a genuinely functional character. He's legible — he's waiting for his father, the suitors push him around, he's sick of the suitors, he doesn't like that his mother won't throw them out, he doesn't know how to restore order, he sails to Sparta to see Menelaus just to learn something about his father. He has normal character traits — he's young, not stupid, occasionally hot-headed, a bit vain, and he learns from his mistakes.

And the film might have worked better as a piece of drama if Odysseus weren't in it at all — if he were off somewhere like the ghost of Hamlet's father, and all his appearances came through the accounts of Menelaus or whoever else. Odysseus would exist as an ephemeral, literally mythical figure, and would only show up at the very end. The whole thing would unfold, as The Strokes sang, "in the light of the living ghost."

But it would have been unwatchable, because even as it stands the Telemachus thread is a bit of a slog — it's all talk, and watching that for three hours would have been unbearable.

Which brings us back to my thesis that Nolan wasn't interested in making a film about Odysseus. I don't claim to know what he wanted or what interested him, but hear me out.

There's a comic series called Fables, where the characters of classic fairy tales live in modern New York. The Big Bad Wolf is an alcoholic detective everyone hates. Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow is a corrupt bureaucrat, Snow White is an administrative official, Mr. Toad is white trash, the Little Mermaid is a courtesan, Beauty and the Beast are broke because they were spoiled and never learned to control their spending. I believe the genre is called post-mythological noir. Their fairy tales are over, and the characters have to go on living.

And the world of Nolan's Odyssey is the same thing. Ithaca is a mess. Agamemnon has been murdered at home with a dagger to the neck by his own wife. Menelaus lives in the Victor's Hell. There's an excellent scene showing Menelaus speaking about Troy as a great victory when he stopped believing that long ago. It really is a well-staged scene with a powerful performance.

And all of these scenes convey the idea and the emotion far better than Odysseus's entire arc. Which is why I have a very strong feeling that, especially after the success of Oppenheimer, this is what Nolan was interested in filming.

Except the money he was given was for an IMAX blockbuster called The Odyssey. So it's as though Nolan was going, "ugh, and this damn Odysseus guy too," someone he had to bolt on somewhere, and then: "ugh, now I have to shoot this nonsense about cyclopes and sirens."

Which is a shame. I'd happily watch a grim noir detective story about Telemachus searching for the truth about his father among the broken veterans of the Trojan War.

So we keep digging and digging, and we've almost dug down to the fundamental problem with the whole film. Nolan's concept was to make an anti-war film. And the myth of Odysseus was chosen as the vehicle. And to make the anti-war concept work, he had to throw out of Odysseus the very things that make Odysseus Odysseus and make the story function — pride and vanity. Because a proud, vain hero isn't going to torment himself with guilt over killing Trojans. Odysseus is a hero from the 12th century BC. He couldn't have cared less. He killed them all in the name of Zeus and of himself, and it felt great.

But let's get into the details.

Nolan, Deconstruction and Darth Vader (and also a Shoehorn)

We live in a world of reinterpreting art. Hashtag postmodern, hashtag metamodern, hashtag deconstruction. You can't just make a work anymore without a wink at the audience. Fine, so be it.

Where was I. It's obvious Nolan wanted to make an anti-war film. But the myth of Odysseus — literally every event of the myth of Odysseus proceeds from who Odysseus is. I understand Nolan's concept: he wanted to show Odysseus at a time when the myth about him hadn't been written yet — reflective, unsure, weak. And because of that, the film's Odysseus turned from a hero of myth into a Vietnam veteran. But since the myth has a fixed canon, that Vietnam veteran had to be shoehorned into that canon. And he doesn't fit very well.

Here's what we get from Nolan's weak Odysseus. They land on Circe's island, and the crew says, "You know what, Odysseus, we've had enough of you, you stay and guard the boat." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

When they sail toward Scylla and Charybdis, Odysseus says, "We're going through the whirlpool." The crew answers, "Are you an idiot? We'll all die there, we're going through the strait." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

He doesn't behave like a hero of myth. He behaves like yet another micro-dude (I know you're all sick of that word, but I can't help myself) who can't even give an order to his own crew.

And if we grant that the "weak Odysseus" concept is a good one, then the question becomes: "why did a myth arise about this guy in the first place?" He doesn't make a single serious decision, he never proves himself in any way, he just sails from one quest marker to the next.

And returning to the notion that this is a deconstruction of a character, a deconstruction of a myth, and so on. Deconstruction doesn't work if you have to say it out loud. And that's exactly what happens in the film. That whole anti-war message I opened this piece with — it just… isn't in the film. It's simply articulated by the characters at various moments. The characters explain that war is bad, that heroes are broken, that the cycles repeat. Nolan's events follow the myth. And the meaning is just laid on top of it through dialogue. The viewer hears that Odysseus is broken but never sees it, because Odysseus is just an ordinary guy who occasionally remembers that he's sad.

You can't just change a character and declare it's the same character.

You can't write a scene where Achilles weeps over the corpse of the Hector he killed because "war is hell" and then say, "Ooooooh, deconstruuuuction." That isn't deconstruction, that's just very lazy shoehorning. What you get is a character who does one thing, says another, and feels a third. That's just a badly written character.

It's the equivalent of remaking Star Wars so that Darth Vader is good, but behaves exactly as he does in the original. Only he isn't evil — he speaks gently to everyone, says hello, gives up his seat.

Why did we decide that Odysseus is supposed to be tormented by guilt in the first place? Deconstruction isn't when you literally rewrite the original to suit yourself; it's when you illuminate the contradictions of the source text. If you're going to deconstruct, show me the hero as a bastard, not as an NPC. A real deconstruction might have looked like this: show how that famous, canonical cunning of Odysseus destroys him. How he shoots at the cyclops not because "that's for my boys" but because he wants to be great and is boasting to the cyclops about who outwitted him. How he comes to understand that his own legendary status is his curse. That's deconstruction — the hero stays himself, but it leads to terrible consequences.

A Darth Vader who is good on the inside but keeps on choking his subordinates and blowing up planets isn't a more complex, tragic Vader; he's a character whose behavior is dictated not by his own logic but has become a mere set of actions mandated by canon and severed from their cause.

So why shouldn't it have been attempted at all?

Why did we decide that Odysseus even CAN be tormented by guilt? Why did we decide that any story can be deconstructed in any way whatsoever? Guilt over the massacre at Troy isn't some neutral additive you can staple onto any hero of antiquity — it's a specifically modern, post-Christian, post-Enlightenment emotion that requires a particular model of perceiving the world: individual conscience, a European culture of guilt, the absence of a culture of family honor, the absence of any deference to the will of the gods. It requires a sense of personal moral responsibility for an act sanctioned by war and by religion. A man whose ethics are built on glory, on the will of Athena and Zeus, doesn't possess the psychological apparatus to generate that particular emotion in response to that particular event. He can fear the wrath of the gods (because he put out the eye of Poseidon's son), but he cannot experience guilt in the sense of "I hurt innocent people, and it's eating me alive." That category doesn't yet exist in the toolkit of meaning available to him.

So when Nolan makes Odysseus feel exactly this guilt, he isn't deepening the character or deconstructing the myth — he's simply inserting an alien psychological module into a shell that was never designed for it. It's like trying to install a brand-new app store on a Nokia 3310.

And here, incidentally, is a perfect illustration of how this shoehorning works in practice. Take the cyclops again. The film shows us a cyclops — a literal, mythological one, with a single eye and a cave. And then, in interviews and on podcasts, we're told that the cyclops is really a projection of Odysseus's guilt. But if you want to deconstruct that badly, then just let the canon go, release it already. Have there be no literal cyclops. Have them run into a one-eyed shepherd named Polyphemus; one of the soldiers decides to swipe a sheep from him; a scuffle breaks out; and in the fight Odysseus accidentally knocks out the shepherd's remaining eye. That would be guilt — over a specific, real, irreversible act against an innocent man. Instead we get a cyclops (because that's what canon demands, and because a blockbuster is required), and then, separately, outside the film itself, we get an explanation: "but ACTUALLY it's a metaphor." Don't show me a metaphor for guilt. Show me guilt.

And from there, you either honestly admit that this is now a different man in different scenery, which would mean giving up on preserving the canon of events one-to-one (and there would be nothing wrong with that, frankly), or you shoehorn that alien psychology into the original plot — which is what happened.

I don't think there is a correct way to make this character feel this emotion while remaining himself. Not because the screenplay is weak, but because the premise itself ("Odysseus tormented by modern guilt") is logically incompatible with what Odysseus and the myth of Odysseus structurally are. This isn't an underdeveloped deconstruction; it's an attempt to deconstruct something that, by definition, isn't suited to this particular deconstruction.

In Conclusion

If you love Nolan. If you love spectacle. If you don't require a film with a message to also deliver a strong emotion — absolutely go see it. It's a very expensively made, very spectacular film. All my friends liked it. I didn't much.

Long one. Spoilers throughout, though the film follows the myth closely enough that I doubt I'm ruining much.

Let's get this out of the way first, so nobody accuses me of being a hater: I'm not a card-carrying member of the Church of Nolan, Savior of Cinema, but I do like his films. I like Oppenheimer, and The Prestige, and… what else is there… I like the Batman films, and, God forgive me, I even like Dunkirk. The Odyssey might well be the first Nolan film that did absolutely nothing for me. The film runs almost three hours, and I checked my watch for the first time an hour and a half in. That feels fairly telling.

So what exactly is wrong with it?

No, you didn't guess it — it's not Agamemnon in Darth Vader/Batman armor (he's on screen for about three minutes). Let's get to the actual point.

One caveat up front: there will be spoilers. But don't worry — in terms of plot events, the film doesn't stray all that far from the original myth, so I hope you'll forgive me for spoiling a story that's two and a half thousand years old. And besides, I'll try not to get carried away.

Most of you have probably already read that this is supposedly a film not so much about an adventure as about living through war trauma, about the bitterness of war, all that. And in a vacuum, that's not a bad idea. One of the recurring complaints about Nolan is that in his films the idea always works harder than the emotion. And… for this film specifically, that's a problem, because PTSD as a subject is about emotion, not about rational analysis.

The film isn't really about the traumatic experience of war for one particular person; it's about the bitterness of war in the broad sense. On top of that, for Nolan as a Brit, the trauma of the First World War matters. The film literally spells it out, to paraphrase: "We're afraid of the Sea Peoples, but we destroyed everything ourselves. We had peace, language and trade, and Agamemnon's ambitions wiped it all out. We are the Sea Peoples. After the fall of Troy nothing will be the way it was before the fall of Troy. We destroyed our own Bronze Age. But time will pass, civilization will rise again, and our descendants will forget our mistakes." So: the civilizational destructiveness of war. Odysseus periodically remembers how they climbed out of the horse and slaughtered everyone, and thinks, "What have I done?" — so there's the personal trauma of war. Agamemnon was murdered by his own wife on his return (sorry for the spoiler, but he has exactly three appearances on screen and zero lines in the whole film, and it's hardly a big secret anyway); Menelaus lost his brother and lives with a wife who hates him; Ithaca is being bled dry by the suitors and by the paralysis of power — so the price of victory is in there too.

And you read all that and think: "Damn, what a great concept." But the problems start the moment you actually sit down and watch the thing. Let's take it in order.

Nolan and the Cyclops

Well, Nolan is Nolan, no arguments there. The visuals, the sound, the editing, the sound editing, the performances — all top tier. The film is deeply tactile; you can literally feel the tension in some scenes. A few of the dialogue scenes are absolute gems. But for some reason (I'll get to my theory on this later), everything that concerns Odysseus's actual journey is shot pretty poorly — sometimes in terms of staging, sometimes in terms of storytelling. I won't catalogue everything I disliked; let's stop at what I consider the single most disastrous episode in the film — the cyclops's cave.

Let's start with the fact that in the original this is the cornerstone of the entire Odyssey. Without the cyclops there would be no ten years of wandering. In the original, he and Odysseus have a psychological duel that Odysseus masterminds his way out of. In the film, the cyclops essentially doesn't speak at all. And I've heard the counterargument that, well, these men had been at war so long they'd forgotten how to solve anything through conversation, et cetera, et cetera. BUT! The problem with this scene is something else entirely. It's just badly staged.

Yes, there's suspense at the start, when the cyclops first appears and starts devouring the crew. But after that, there's no tension whatsoever in the rest of the sequence. He comes, he goes. They sit around in his cave. They don't interact with each other in any way. And a couple of days later they're like, "okay, let's stick a fork in his eye and pretend to be sheep." Yes, over those few days he's supposedly been eating them one at a time. But it's unclear how many of them are even in there, or whether he can see them at all, because he doesn't react to them in any way. I was genuinely sitting there thinking, "does he even see them? Does he realize there are people hanging around in his cave? Why doesn't he interact with them at all?" For most of the episode the cyclops is just an animatronic arm that occasionally snatches a soldier and drags him off into the dark. Anyone who played Heroes of Might and Magic V might remember the low-level spell where a fist appears in mid-air and punches your opponent. That's roughly what the cyclops looks like.

The Laestrygonian giants show up for five minutes. The idea of sailing past the sirens and dodging their song via the ears of Odysseus's second-in-command is very cool. But the episode lasts three minutes. The Circe scene is directed beautifully, but it has a different problem — narratively, it exists in the form it does purely to voice a feminist message. So, remember I promised you a theory?

Here it is. Nolan wasn't especially interested in filming the adventures of Odysseus. But more on that later.

Nolan and the Micro-Dudes

Quick note on the term, since I'll be using it a lot: a micro-dude in my country is meme shorthand for a random, unremarkable person. A normie.

Right. Another frequently voiced complaint about Nolan is that he can't create interesting characters. His characters are always functions. Take Tenet. There's supposedly a protagonist. He supposedly does things, says things. But he isn't a character. He's just a POV for the viewer. A camera on legs. And Odysseus here is exactly the same. The trouble is that Tenet is an original story that doesn't especially require a strong protagonist. There's even a meta-commentary from Nolan himself in there — the hero is literally called The Protagonist in the screenplay. But the myth of Odysseus is built entirely on the personality of Odysseus. And Nolan strips that personality out of him to serve his concept.

So in the film, Odysseus and his crew consist of: a default guy; his second-in-command Eurylochus, who at least gets the occasional line; and an indeterminate number of no-name micro-dudes. They have no names. I don't remember their faces. And if the film is about the price of war, why am I supposed to feel anything when a bunch of anonymous units get killed?

Meanwhile, according to the plot of the film (the film specifically), Odysseus is very impressive. He's impressive because Penelope says he's impressive. Because John Leguizamo says he's impressive. He even saved a puppy in his youth. But when I look at the screen, I don't understand why he's impressive. He's literally a default guy. He's a micro-dude. All of his greatness lives somewhere off-screen, in other characters' dialogue.

But that's only half the problem. If we do try to assign Odysseus some characteristics in this film beyond "sad man with the eyes of a dog," then I suppose he's calm and level-headed. There are no scenes where he loses it or acts on impulse. And from this follows a problem even bigger than the absence of character — some of Odysseus's actions in the film are dictated by the canon of the myth rather than by the logic of the character:

Odysseus is calm and level-headed, yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops after the escape, which incidentally costs a couple more of his crew their lives. In the original, he wanted the cyclops to know who had outwitted him — out of pride. Here he's immediately asked why the hell he did that, and he answers: that was for my boys. Except that several times in this same film he argued for leaving his boys' bodies behind, because it makes for an easier getaway. So he's a pragmatist — and yet for some reason he takes a shot at the cyclops.

Odysseus displays no willfulness anywhere in the film, and then suddenly: "Hey, tie me up, I want to hear the sirens sing." In the original, he loved risk; he was curious.

Which raises my question: why on earth would this character in this film behave that way? The answer is that he's broken at the screenplay level.

But it's not all bad in the screenplay.

There's the Telemachus thread. Telemachus is a genuinely functional character. He's legible — he's waiting for his father, the suitors push him around, he's sick of the suitors, he doesn't like that his mother won't throw them out, he doesn't know how to restore order, he sails to Sparta to see Menelaus just to learn something about his father. He has normal character traits — he's young, not stupid, occasionally hot-headed, a bit vain, and he learns from his mistakes.

And the film might have worked better as a piece of drama if Odysseus weren't in it at all — if he were off somewhere like the ghost of Hamlet's father, and all his appearances came through the accounts of Menelaus or whoever else. Odysseus would exist as an ephemeral, literally mythical figure, and would only show up at the very end. The whole thing would unfold, as The Strokes sang, "in the light of the living ghost."

But it would have been unwatchable, because even as it stands the Telemachus thread is a bit of a slog — it's all talk, and watching that for three hours would have been unbearable.

Which brings us back to my thesis that Nolan wasn't interested in making a film about Odysseus. I don't claim to know what he wanted or what interested him, but hear me out.

There's a comic series called Fables, where the characters of classic fairy tales live in modern New York. The Big Bad Wolf is an alcoholic detective everyone hates. Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow is a corrupt bureaucrat, Snow White is an administrative official, Mr. Toad is white trash, the Little Mermaid is a courtesan, Beauty and the Beast are broke because they were spoiled and never learned to control their spending. I believe the genre is called post-mythological noir. Their fairy tales are over, and the characters have to go on living.

And the world of Nolan's Odyssey is the same thing. Ithaca is a mess. Agamemnon has been murdered at home with a dagger to the neck by his own wife. Menelaus lives in the Victor's Hell. There's an excellent scene showing Menelaus speaking about Troy as a great victory when he stopped believing that long ago. It really is a well-staged scene with a powerful performance.

And all of these scenes convey the idea and the emotion far better than Odysseus's entire arc. Which is why I have a very strong feeling that, especially after the success of Oppenheimer, this is what Nolan was interested in filming.

Except the money he was given was for an IMAX blockbuster called The Odyssey. So it's as though Nolan was going, "ugh, and this damn Odysseus guy too," someone he had to bolt on somewhere, and then: "ugh, now I have to shoot this nonsense about cyclopes and sirens."

Which is a shame. I'd happily watch a grim noir detective story about Telemachus searching for the truth about his father among the broken veterans of the Trojan War.

So we keep digging and digging, and we've almost dug down to the fundamental problem with the whole film. Nolan's concept was to make an anti-war film. And the myth of Odysseus was chosen as the vehicle. And to make the anti-war concept work, he had to throw out of Odysseus the very things that make Odysseus Odysseus and make the story function — pride and vanity. Because a proud, vain hero isn't going to torment himself with guilt over killing Trojans. Odysseus is a hero from the 12th century BC. He couldn't have cared less. He killed them all in the name of Zeus and of himself, and it felt great.

But let's get into the details.

Nolan, Deconstruction and Darth Vader (and also a Shoehorn)

We live in a world of reinterpreting art. Hashtag postmodern, hashtag metamodern, hashtag deconstruction. You can't just make a work anymore without a wink at the audience. Fine, so be it.

Where was I. It's obvious Nolan wanted to make an anti-war film. But the myth of Odysseus — literally every event of the myth of Odysseus proceeds from who Odysseus is. I understand Nolan's concept: he wanted to show Odysseus at a time when the myth about him hadn't been written yet — reflective, unsure, weak. And because of that, the film's Odysseus turned from a hero of myth into a Vietnam veteran. But since the myth has a fixed canon, that Vietnam veteran had to be shoehorned into that canon. And he doesn't fit very well.

Here's what we get from Nolan's weak Odysseus. They land on Circe's island, and the crew says, "You know what, Odysseus, we've had enough of you, you stay and guard the boat." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

When they sail toward Scylla and Charybdis, Odysseus says, "We're going through the whirlpool." The crew answers, "Are you an idiot? We'll all die there, we're going through the strait." And Odysseus goes, "Okay."

He doesn't behave like a hero of myth. He behaves like yet another micro-dude (I know you're all sick of that word, but I can't help myself) who can't even give an order to his own crew.

And if we grant that the "weak Odysseus" concept is a good one, then the question becomes: "why did a myth arise about this guy in the first place?" He doesn't make a single serious decision, he never proves himself in any way, he just sails from one quest marker to the next.

And returning to the notion that this is a deconstruction of a character, a deconstruction of a myth, and so on. Deconstruction doesn't work if you have to say it out loud. And that's exactly what happens in the film. That whole anti-war message I opened this piece with — it just… isn't in the film. It's simply articulated by the characters at various moments. The characters explain that war is bad, that heroes are broken, that the cycles repeat. Nolan's events follow the myth. And the meaning is just laid on top of it through dialogue. The viewer hears that Odysseus is broken but never sees it, because Odysseus is just an ordinary guy who occasionally remembers that he's sad.

You can't just change a character and declare it's the same character.

You can't write a scene where Achilles weeps over the corpse of the Hector he killed because "war is hell" and then say, "Ooooooh, deconstruuuuction." That isn't deconstruction, that's just very lazy shoehorning. What you get is a character who does one thing, says another, and feels a third. That's just a badly written character.

It's the equivalent of remaking Star Wars so that Darth Vader is good, but behaves exactly as he does in the original. Only he isn't evil — he speaks gently to everyone, says hello, gives up his seat.

Why did we decide that Odysseus is supposed to be tormented by guilt in the first place? Deconstruction isn't when you literally rewrite the original to suit yourself; it's when you illuminate the contradictions of the source text. If you're going to deconstruct, show me the hero as a bastard, not as an NPC. A real deconstruction might have looked like this: show how that famous, canonical cunning of Odysseus destroys him. How he shoots at the cyclops not because "that's for my boys" but because he wants to be great and is boasting to the cyclops about who outwitted him. How he comes to understand that his own legendary status is his curse. That's deconstruction — the hero stays himself, but it leads to terrible consequences.

A Darth Vader who is good on the inside but keeps on choking his subordinates and blowing up planets isn't a more complex, tragic Vader; he's a character whose behavior is dictated not by his own logic but has become a mere set of actions mandated by canon and severed from their cause.

So why shouldn't it have been attempted at all?

Why did we decide that Odysseus even CAN be tormented by guilt? Why did we decide that any story can be deconstructed in any way whatsoever? Guilt over the massacre at Troy isn't some neutral additive you can staple onto any hero of antiquity — it's a specifically modern, post-Christian, post-Enlightenment emotion that requires a particular model of perceiving the world: individual conscience, a European culture of guilt, the absence of a culture of family honor, the absence of any deference to the will of the gods. It requires a sense of personal moral responsibility for an act sanctioned by war and by religion. A man whose ethics are built on glory, on the will of Athena and Zeus, doesn't possess the psychological apparatus to generate that particular emotion in response to that particular event. He can fear the wrath of the gods (because he put out the eye of Poseidon's son), but he cannot experience guilt in the sense of "I hurt innocent people, and it's eating me alive." That category doesn't yet exist in the toolkit of meaning available to him.

So when Nolan makes Odysseus feel exactly this guilt, he isn't deepening the character or deconstructing the myth — he's simply inserting an alien psychological module into a shell that was never designed for it. It's like trying to install a brand-new app store on a Nokia 3310.

And here, incidentally, is a perfect illustration of how this shoehorning works in practice. Take the cyclops again. The film shows us a cyclops — a literal, mythological one, with a single eye and a cave. And then, in interviews and on podcasts, we're told that the cyclops is really a projection of Odysseus's guilt. But if you want to deconstruct that badly, then just let the canon go, release it already. Have there be no literal cyclops. Have them run into a one-eyed shepherd named Polyphemus; one of the soldiers decides to swipe a sheep from him; a scuffle breaks out; and in the fight Odysseus accidentally knocks out the shepherd's remaining eye. That would be guilt — over a specific, real, irreversible act against an innocent man. Instead we get a cyclops (because that's what canon demands, and because a blockbuster is required), and then, separately, outside the film itself, we get an explanation: "but ACTUALLY it's a metaphor." Don't show me a metaphor for guilt. Show me guilt.

And from there, you either honestly admit that this is now a different man in different scenery, which would mean giving up on preserving the canon of events one-to-one (and there would be nothing wrong with that, frankly), or you shoehorn that alien psychology into the original plot — which is what happened.

I don't think there is a correct way to make this character feel this emotion while remaining himself. Not because the screenplay is weak, but because the premise itself ("Odysseus tormented by modern guilt") is logically incompatible with what Odysseus and the myth of Odysseus structurally are. This isn't an underdeveloped deconstruction; it's an attempt to deconstruct something that, by definition, isn't suited to this particular deconstruction.

In Conclusion

If you love Nolan. If you love spectacle. If you don't require a film with a message to also deliver a strong emotion — absolutely go see it. It's a very expensively made, very spectacular film. All my friends liked it. I didn't much.