by Shaun Lawton
One of the misunderstandings of Christopher Nolan's epic modern adaptation of The Odyssey is the assumption that Homer's poetry needed to survive in the dialogue. After sitting through its gripping two-hour-and-fifty-two-minute runtime, I walked out of the theater into the dazzling sunlight convinced that it didn't. The rhyme and rhythm of Homer's poetry was never lost. It was translated into the visual language of cinema, where it lives between the frames.
I've loved movies for as long as I can remember. My tastes range from Stanley Kubrick, Alan Parker, David Cronenberg, and Darren Aronofsky to Christopher Nolan and Edgar Wright. I read classical literature with the same enthusiasm that I read science fiction, fantasy, and Stephen King, and I've long believed there is no contradiction between appreciating the highest forms of art and the most accessible popular storytelling. My love of Homer is every bit as genuine as my affection for Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy. With that in mind, you can imagine my anticipation as I settled into the first IMAX screening of The Odyssey in Salt Lake City.
Before the first image appears, Nolan gives us a clue to the entire film in a single sentence: "A time of apparent magic..." It immediately sets the stage for what's to come, and that one carefully chosen word—apparent—opens a doorway in our imagination to a wide variety of interpretations. Are we about to witness genuine supernatural events, or simply the way ordinary people living in the Bronze Age understood a natural world to be filled with mystery? It struck just the right note to pique my interest as the voyage began.
Right from the film's opening moments, as the audience sits under the spell of IMAX's overwhelming sound and towering imagery, the silence is broken by the resonant thud of the bard Phemius's staff echoing through the great hall. With each rhythmic beat he intones, "A face... a man... a song..." Before the epic has even begun, the film immerses us in the cadence of an ancient bard's recitation, reminding us that The Odyssey first lived not on the printed page but in the spoken voice. Phemius is played by rapper Travis Scott, and before a single scene of Odysseus's travels unfolds, Nolan reminds us that The Odyssey began not as a book but as an oral tradition.
Within the film's opening minutes—I couldn't say exactly how many, because I was already spellbound by the unfolding action—I became aware of something unusual. It wasn't merely the editing, but the rhythm of the editing. Certain scene transitions possessed a cadence that immediately caught my attention. I remember thinking to myself, "Okay... here we go." From that point on I was completely caught up in the film's narrative, and for nearly three hours it never once lost its grip on me.
Another aspect I really loved was Ludwig Göransson's original score, which complements Nolan's vision perfectly. Rather than leaning on the sweeping orchestral tradition one might expect from an epic of this scale—or falling back on the signature style that audiences associate with Hans Zimmer's celebrated film scores—Nolan instead encouraged Göransson to embrace a sound world rooted in the Bronze Age, building the score around ancient instruments such as the aulos and lyre, together with bronze percussion. The result is a musical language that vividly evokes the world of The Odyssey. It never distracts from the action, instead lending just the right degree of sonic nuance to keep the audience immersed in that world. For me, it was a perfect complement to Nolan's vision, and one of the film's artistic triumphs.
One criticism I've heard is that the cast was too recognizable—that viewers see Matt Damon, Anne Hathaway, Tom Holland, John Leguizamo, and the rest, rather than Odysseus, Penelope, Telemachus, and Eumaeus. While that's a perfectly understandable reaction, it simply wasn't mine. I've never expected great actors to disappear completely, not in all my decades of moviegoing. I know I'm watching Matt Damon. I assume audiences knew we were watching Jack Nicholson in The Shining, Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur, Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, Oliver Reed in The Devils, etc. Recognition of actors has never prevented great performances from becoming great characters.
To me, it's part of the attraction of Hollywood cinema. The question isn't whether you recognize the performer; it's whether their performance ultimately persuades you. As far as I'm concerned, all the major actors in The Odyssey truly pulled it off, particularly Anne Hathaway as Penelope, whose finest moments are reserved for the film's final act. The same is true of Robert Pattinson's Antinous. He never once overacts, maintaining the character's calculated arrogance from beginning to end. I really appreciated John Leguizamo's Eumaeus. He brought a genuine warmth and humanity to the role, making him one of my favorite characters in the movie. Also worthy of note was Samantha Morton's haunted portrayal of Circe, and I appreciated Nolan's interpretation of her character, to which Odysseus responds in a satisfying way. The moment I saw Charlize Theron as Calypso, I was entranced by the casting choice. Even if the sequences on Ogygia don't quite reach the intensity of the movie's best passages, they do provide a welcome pause, and moments of stillness during an otherwise relentless epic. I should add that I thought Matt Damon put in an outstanding performance as Odysseus, imbuing the character with a certain humanity that struck the perfect balance between humility and heroism.
Several sequences left me in genuine awe, among them the entire Trojan Horse passage. Watching Odysseus and his men emerge in secret within the walls of Troy to prepare the city for siege, and then witnessing the gates swing open to reveal King Agamemnon's waiting army, produced one of those rare collective gasps from the audience that remind you why great films are best experienced in a theater. Thrilling stuff. I must also say that Agamemnon's blackened, regal armor was stunning to behold.
This is one point where I can understand how others may feel differently, perhaps because of our separate expectations of how a historical epic should be portrayed. Some viewers understandably want one to pursue archaeological authenticity, while others are more interested in how a filmmaker interprets the past through a distinct artistic vision. I admired the liberties Nolan took with costume, architecture, and design, not because they claim historical certainty, but because they reveal a coherent artistic vision. This, too, is part of the poetry of cinema. Rather than reconstructing the Mycenaean Age as a museum exhibit, Nolan paints it as myth remembered—vast, dreamlike, and splendidly alive. I thought it was just glorious.
Like many viewers, I found the encounter with Polyphemus unforgettable. Without spoiling the sequence, it's enough to say that Odysseus commits a single, crucial error—one that reverberates throughout the rest of the film. Rather than presenting him as an infallible hero, Nolan reminds us that greatness and weakness often inhabit the same person. Odysseus is courageous, intelligent, resourceful, and deeply honorable, yet his own pride becomes one of the greatest obstacles on his long journey home. In that sense, The Odyssey is ultimately not just an adventure, but the story of a profoundly human man learning to live with the consequences of his own choices.
While Odysseus clearly stands above his subjects in strength, intelligence, honor, and sheer resourcefulness, what impressed me most was his deeply developed sense of ethics. Early in the film we're told that he would never hunt a deer without first plucking his bowstring to announce his presence, thereby giving the animal an opportunity to escape. In doing so, he levels the playing field, revealing a noble character who refuses to seek an unfair advantage, even in the hunt. It struck me as Nolan's way of paying homage to Homer's portrait of kingship, where greatness is measured not only by courage and skill, but by moral character—qualities that may, in turn, be reflected in the sons destined to inherit the throne.
It's also clear that Nolan has little interest in portraying Odysseus or Telemachus as demigods. Instead, he grounds them firmly in the human world, where ordinary people interpret the forces of nature as the work of gods—whether the radiant Dawn or a violent storm attributed to Zeus. Read in that light, Odysseus's long and harrowing journey home, with its monsters, shipwrecks, and years stranded on Calypso's island, becomes more than an adventure. It feels like a moral reckoning, as though every hardship serves as a measure of retribution for the flaws of an otherwise extraordinary man and king.
The manner in which Christopher Nolan demonstrates the epic challenges and enduring consequences of war, as seen through Odysseus's own reflections near the film's conclusion, makes for a profound meditation on how those ancient struggles continue to echo in our own world. Appreciating that layer of the film requires an attentive audience willing to look beyond its spectacle. Those who do may discover that beneath the action and adventure lies a surprisingly thoughtful examination of leadership, responsibility, and the lasting moral cost of war.
The quiet revelations awaiting attentive viewers provide enough food for thought to fuel rewarding conversations long after the credits roll. The film's reflections on "the people from the sea," on family sustained by faith and loyalty against impossible odds, and on humanity's enduring struggle to become better than itself all emerge naturally from the story rather than being imposed upon it. For me, these ideas elevated The Odyssey beyond spectacle into something genuinely moving.
There was one quick scene transition that completely changed the way I understood the film. I won't describe it in detail because it deserves to be experienced without advance knowledge, but it occurs during Odysseus's recollections of Troy. In the space of only a few seconds, Nolan transforms what initially appears to be an act of intimate human violence into something much larger—a meditation on civilization itself. The cut is so unexpected, yet so inevitable, that I realized I was no longer watching an adventure story. I was watching a filmmaker use myth to examine not merely the cost of war, but what war ultimately destroys.
Without wanting to spoil anything else about this remarkable cinematic achievement, I do feel compelled to point out that what I loved best about 2026’s The Odyssey, besides the sheer spectacle of it as captured on 70mm IMAX film, was its enduring focus on the humanity of the story, even while preserving many integral mythological passages concerning monsters and magic. In retrospect, the apparent magic captured among many key sequences, seems very much as if it were remembered from a dream. For example, the sequence when they’re ambushed by the giants in steel clad armor comes swiftly and unexpectedly, without any explanation as to who they are. Of course readers of Homer know these are the cannibal Laestrygonians of Telepylus, but it’s not necessary for our audience to know this. What’s important is the sudden and visceral violence of battle they incur while Odysseus and his terrified men struggle to escape their relentless attack.
Of course, the entire story points toward Odysseus's long-awaited return to Ithaca, and even viewers who know absolutely nothing about Homer's poem will find themselves anticipating an unforgettable homecoming. To say that Nolan does not disappoint would be the understatement of the year. The less I say about the thrilling conclusion, the better. I appreciated every last beat and measure, every carefully judged detail that sent waves of excitement through me and much of the audience seated around me. It has been quite some time since I watched a film that was not only so well attended, but that elicited such enthusiastic reactions from the crowd. Judging from the spontaneous hoots and hollers throughout the final act, I was clearly not alone in being moved by the emotional power of the story's conclusion.
Christopher Nolan wasn't making a cinéma vérité drama populated by unknown performers. He set out to create a modern epic in the tradition of David Lean, filled with actors capable of carrying mythic roles across the largest possible cinematic canvas. For me, it represents the triumphant return of the classic Hollywood epic. The Odyssey isn't simply a successful adaptation; it's compelling evidence that audiences still hunger for ambitious, director-driven films conceived first and foremost for the theatrical experience. If Hollywood has the courage to follow Nolan's example, perhaps the cinematic epic has far more life left in it than many of us have dared to hope. And perhaps the greatest tribute Nolan pays to Homer is not that he preserves the poetry on the page, but that he discovers where it has always been waiting—in the visual language of cinema, between the frames.
