A simple intertitle sets the scene: “A time of apparent magic.” The phrase is deceptively layered, and it reflects a key aspect of the way “The Odyssey” approaches its source material. “Apparent” could mean obvious, or perhaps it means ostensible.
Classics majors may be disappointed to see that in Christopher Nolan’s film, the gods of the Greek pantheon barely appear as characters at all. Their very existence is left an open question.
Indeed, some of the magic in the film is plainly apparent. The cyclops Polyphemus, the witch Circe and the sea monsters Scylla and Charybdis all set upon our heroes on their arduous journey home. The gods, by contrast, are apparent only in the second sense. There are no scenes set in the halls of Olympus where they appear and explain their motivations; where one sees godly wrath, another sees unlucky weather.
This ambiguity is the kind that pervades real-world matters of faith. The ultimate agency in the story rests with the human characters, who are forced to confront the consequences of their own actions in a thematically rich exploration of violent conflict's consequences.
As the film opens, Odysseus (Matt Damon) is renowned as the architect of the fall of Troy. He has been missing for years, yet the bards still recount his genius plan to sneak soldiers past the city walls within a wooden horse presented as an offering. This act of subterfuge becomes the critical inflection point of the film. The night that Troy fell is revisited repeatedly from different perspectives, revealing gradually why Odysseus’ greatest accomplishment may also have been his greatest crime.
In executing his plan and destroying the city, Odysseus becomes a sort of antiquity-era Oppenheimer. Beyond claiming the lives of Troy’s residents, the act reverberates throughout the ancient world as a violation of Zeus’ law — the sacred norm of hospitality that demands strangers be treated with dignity, since any one of them might be a god in disguise. Nolan deftly weaves this convention into the narrative and, in a brilliant twist I won’t spoil, draws a direct line from that law to Odysseus’ encounters with the goddess Athena (Zendaya).
In doing so, Nolan transforms an ancient custom into the film’s central philosophical concern: Civilization itself depends upon acts of trust between strangers, and once that faith is broken, betrayal breeds more betrayal until the social fabric begins to fray. Nolan is wisely cagey about drawing explicit modern parallels, but the film’s relevance is difficult to miss. Whether expressed through fear of outsiders, reflexive distrust of those with different beliefs or the alienation that encourages us to reduce one another to avatars on a screen, the erosion of good faith feels like one of the defining maladies of contemporary life.
Beyond reworking and reinterpreting the text, the film also succeeds as an exhilarating action spectacle when recreating its most iconic moments. We are frequently reminded during standout sequences that Nolan is operating on an unparalleled level. His commitment to shooting the hard way — entirely on physical IMAX film, with minimal digital effects and in real locations — results in a uniquely visceral thrill well worth the price of admission.
Nolan is dead set on plunging the audience into the story as its characters would experience it. The claustrophobia within the Trojan horse, the impact of violent ocean waves and the horrifying sensation of being transformed into swine are all communicated with the unflinching sensory detail that only movies can offer.
The story of “The Odyssey” also turns out to be well suited to Nolan’s editing instincts. As in “Oppenheimer,” the story is told nonlinearly, with images shown and revisited depending on who is recounting or simply recalling them. Because of this choice, the first half hour can feel somewhat disorienting. But Nolan operates in the realm of setup and payoff, and every choice feels gloriously earned by the film’s cathartic conclusion.
As Nolan devotees know, his films also come with some requisite clunkiness. Dialogue is often overtly expository, and characters sometimes explain themes out loud. In “The Odyssey,” Nolan wisely has the characters speak with American accents in modern vernacular, but there are more elevated lines that break the pattern. Still, the film features some of Nolan’s strongest writing, particularly as a thematically coherent adaptation of such daunting source material. Some monologues — like when Odysseus describes the song of the sirens, or when he recounts the fall of Troy in detail — are heart-wrenchingly beautiful in their construction and delivery.
Matt Damon proves an excellent choice for the lead role, delivering the best performance of his career as a hero of many contradictions. Odysseus is the kind of man who will pluck his bowstring while hunting — to give his prey a warning, and a fair shot at escape — yet he is also a trickster who engineered the slaughter of a city. Damon’s grounded, likable persona manages to keep Odysseus easy to root for through all of it, especially as the guilt and trauma of his war years begin to surface.
The rest of the star-studded cast is strong as well. Robert Pattinson is another standout as Antinous, a sleazy but occasionally charming suitor competing for the hand of Odysseus’ ever-faithful wife, Penelope (Anne Hathaway). Pattinson communicates so much with the smallest movements and facial expressions, making what could be a one-dimensional villain a layered, endlessly watchable antagonist. Hathaway, meanwhile, turns in a reliably expressive performance, radiating bitter frustration rather than mere sadness at her husband’s disappearance and the burden it forces her to bear.
Tom Holland is solid if unremarkable as Telemachus, Odysseus’ young son who struggles to control his father’s kingdom. Compared to his peers, Holland is a somewhat limited performer, more or less retreading his Peter Parker. Still, as in Marvel films, he’s a dependable fit as an uncertain young protégé living in the shadow of a legendary father-figure.
“The Odyssey” is a remarkable achievement. As cinema, it is overwhelming in the best sense: three hours that race by on propulsive elliptical editing, astonishing practical craftsmanship, and a sense of scale that demands to be experienced in a theater — ideally on the largest screen available. Yet the spectacle never exists for its own sake. Nolan has found a way to adapt a 3,000-year-old poem that is at once intellectually rigorous and thrillingly accessible. Its most interesting ideas emerge naturally from Homer’s text while feeling bracingly modern. Like “Oppenheimer,” “The Odyssey” reflects a filmmaker growing ever more confident in marrying formal ambition with emotional clarity. The result is not merely one of Nolan's finest films, but one of the rare modern epics that earns the title.
