There are few stories more foundational to Western civilization than The Odyssey. Long before there was Frodo carrying the Ring into Mordor, Gatsby longing for the love of Daisy, or Samwise Gamgee reminding us that “there’s some good in this world,” there was Odysseus.
His long voyage home became the blueprint for countless heroes who followed, which is precisely why Christopher Nolan’s adaptation left me so conflicted. This is, in many respects, a beautiful film. It contains breathtaking cinematography, exceptional performances, terrifying monsters, and several sequences that rank among the finest mythological filmmaking I have ever seen. I genuinely enjoyed watching it.
Yet throughout much of its runtime, I found myself wanting to stand up in the theater and ask, “Christopher…what are we doing here?”
The central problem is that Nolan forgets what The Odyssey is actually about. The poem has never simply been a story about monsters or even about war. Those are the obstacles that stand between Odysseus and his destination. The story itself has always been about a man who refuses to stop trying to get home, and that unwavering desire is what has kept Homer’s epic alive for nearly three thousand years. Nolan, however, repeatedly introduces a question Homer never asks: Does Odysseus even want to go home?
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T WANT TO GO HOME?!”
I fully expect to bolt upright at three o’clock one morning this week shouting that sentence, and perhaps to continue doing so from beyond the grave, because that is literally the entire story. The film returns to this idea several times, repeatedly suggesting that Odysseus may not truly want to return to Ithaca or that he has become uncertain of his desire to do so. Whether the suggestion comes from those around him or from Odysseus himself, it feels completely foreign to Homer.
No. Absolutely not.
For nearly three thousand years, readers have admired Odysseus because he never relinquishes his longing for home. He could have remained with Calypso in comfort and ease. He could have abandoned Ithaca altogether, founded a new kingdom elsewhere, and spared his soldiers years of suffering. He could have chosen any number of simpler lives. He never seriously considers doing so because every monster he fights, every storm he survives, and every temptation he rejects serves a single purpose. He wants to see his wife. He wants to see his son. He wants to go home. That longing elevates The Odyssey from another adventure story into one of civilization’s defining epics.
Instead, Nolan replaces that timeless truth with a far more familiar modern message about the psychological cost of war. Homer certainly acknowledges war’s brutality, but it is not the poem’s central concern. He writes from an aristocratic warrior culture that prizes courage, honor, and martial excellence. Odysseus does not spend the poem wondering whether war has permanently damaged his soul. He spends it trying to get home.
That distinction shapes every major decision Odysseus makes. He sails past Scylla knowing she will claim six of his men because sacrificing a few is the only way to save the rest of the crew – and get them home. Later, after he repeatedly warns his companions not to slaughter the sacred cattle of Helios, they ignore him and suffer the consequences of their own choices. Odysseus grieves their deaths, but he never abandons his mission or questions whether continuing toward Ithaca is worthwhile.
The poem consistently presents homecoming as the highest earthly good.
That moral framework also helps explain why Christianity later appeared so revolutionary to the Greco-Roman world. The Gospels elevate humility, forgiveness, and turning the other cheek, virtues that stand in marked contrast to the martial ideals that shaped Homer’s heroes. Odysseus is not a Christian protagonist wrestling with trauma or guilt. He is a Homeric hero whose greatness lies in his perseverance, his endurance, and his relentless determination to reach his family.
Poor Penelope
The film seriously misunderstands Penelope. Over the past decade, Hollywood has developed an unfortunate habit of assuming that a woman cannot be strong unless she behaves like a boorish man. Instead of celebrating traditionally feminine virtues such as patience, wisdom, endurance, and loyalty, filmmakers often replace them with sarcasm, aggression, and political ambition. Penelope never needed that treatment because she is already one of literature’s strongest women. For twenty grueling years she preserves Odysseus’ kingdom, protects Telemachus, outwits the suitors, and never abandons the conviction that her husband will return. Her strength has never depended on dominating those around her, but in her cleverness and perseverance.
Nolan’s Penelope, however, often feels less like a Greek noblewoman and queen than a modern “girl boss.” When Telemechus remarks that the throne has stood empty for years, she quickly reminds everyone that she has occupied it, revealing a preoccupation with authority that does not exist in the source material.
Even more infuriating is the way she treats Telemachus. Rather than mentoring a young man who has spent his life growing up in his father’s shadow, she spends much of the film belittling him and reminding him that he falls short.
Honestly, she speaks to the poor lad like she’s trying to produce a serial killer. Ed Kemper enters the chat. At one point, she suggests that if he truly wants to solve the problem, he should lock all of the suitors inside a room and burn them alive. When Telemachus objects that such an act would leave him exiled by the elders, she dismisses the concern and asks why she could not simply rule in his place. Even setting aside the morality of the proposal, the exchange misunderstands Penelope’s position.
In Homer’s world, she does not possess an independent hereditary claim to the throne. Her authority derives from her role as Odysseus’ wife and Telemachus’ mother, not from a right to reign in her own name. When Telemachus raises the potential for his exile should he commit to her proposal, Penelope responds by questioning why she could not rule in his place, reframing the issue as one of gender rather than dynastic legitimacy. Penelope is not a queen regnant with an independent hereditary right to Ithaca’s throne.
Consequently, Nolan transforms one of literature’s greatest examples of feminine strength into something much closer to Daenerys Targaryen, a woman who believes power is exercised through fire and blood rather than wisdom.
Then comes the line that nearly made me throw my popcorn. Before Odysseus departs for Troy, Penelope tells him that she will not make decisions based on his memory.
My girl…
That is your entire personality.
Everything Penelope does in Homer’s poem flows from her confidence that Odysseus will return. She keeps his household together, protects his inheritance, and waits for him long after everyone else assumes he is dead. Her faithfulness is not incidental to her character. It IS her character. Remove that defining quality, and she ceases to be Penelope at all.
Worse still, Nolan omits what is, in my opinion, the finest scene in the entire poem. After twenty years apart, Penelope does not immediately embrace the man claiming to be her husband. Instead, she tests him by calmly ordering a servant to move their marriage bed. The request is impossible. Odysseus built the bed around the trunk of a living olive tree rooted in the earth, making it the literal and symbolic foundation of their marriage. His horrified reaction – and his insistence that the bed cannot be moved unless someone has cut down the tree itself – finally convinces Penelope that the stranger before her is truly Odysseus. It is one of the most beautiful and emotionally satisfying reunions in all of literature.
Even Bridgerton Gets This Right
The dialogue creates another problem because it never decides whether it wants to sound ancient or contemporary. One scene reaches for elevated historic-esque language, while the next sounds as though it’s from the CW’s historical romance, Reign. The most jarring example comes when Penelope casually refers to a “party.”
A party.
Even Bridgerton knows better.
Nobody watches Bridgerton expecting flawless Regency dialogue. The writers modernize the language constantly, yet they preserve the illusion of the period by grounding it in historically appropriate vocabulary and social conventions. Characters address one another as “Mother” and “Father” rather than the more contemporary “Mom” and “Dad,” preserving a sense of historical distance even while the dialogue remains accessible. They attend a ball, a feast, or a gathering. They do not sound as though they have just stepped away from a suburban backyard barbecue.
Hearing Telemachus say “Mom” and “Dad” jolts the audience out of the ancient world. The modern phrasing is so jarring that, for a moment, you half expect him to pull a smartphone from his tunic and start texting his parents.
Emily Wilson’s Shadow
Many of these creative decisions make more sense once you realize that Nolan relied heavily on Emily Wilson’s divisive 2017 translation of The Odyssey. Nolan himself has cited Wilson’s famous opening, “Tell me about a complicated man,” as the version that first drew him to adapt the poem, praising her emphasis on Odysseus as a morally complex strategist rather than a conventional epic hero. Wilson deliberately renders Homer in clear, contemporary English, arguing that archaic language creates a false sense of antiquity for modern readers.
Wilson’s translation has earned widespread acclaim for making Homer accessible to a new generation of readers and for becoming the first complete English translation of The Odyssey by a woman. At the same time, it has generated vigorous scholarly debate. Some classicists praise its clarity, precision, and metrical discipline, while others argue that its modern diction compresses Homer’s grandeur, flattens his elevated style, and reframes certain characters and themes through a contemporary interpretive lens. Her translation of the enslaved women in Odysseus’ household, in particular, has become one of the most discussed and contested aspects of her work.
Whether one finds those criticisms persuasive or not, Wilson’s influence is difficult to miss throughout Nolan’s adaptation. The dialogue often adopts the same plain, contemporary register that characterizes her translation, while the story places greater emphasis on Odysseus’ inner conflict, Penelope’s political frustrations, and modern moral questions surrounding war, trauma, and power. Homer’s central concern is the long journey home. Nolan repeatedly redirects the audience’s attention toward psychological guilt and contemporary ethical anxieties, producing a film that often feels less like an adaptation of Homer than an adaptation of Emily Wilson’s interpretation of Homer.
The Film’s Greatest Strengths
For all my complaints, The Odyssey deserves genuine praise because so much of it works remarkably well. Matt Damon makes an excellent Odysseus. People love to joke that Matt Damon only has one facial expression, but when you are portraying one of history’s greatest heroes, one face is enough. He looks the part, carries himself like a king, and convincingly balances physical strength with the emotional anguish of a man who has spent twenty years fighting, wandering, and desperately trying to return home.
Tom Holland brings exactly the earnestness and vulnerability the frequently teary Telemachus requires, making his search for his father one of the film’s more compelling threads. Although the role lacks the emotional depth of his finest dramatic performances, particularly The Devil All the Time, that comparison is potentially unrealistic given that the two stories demand very different things from their actors. Even so, I could not shake the feeling that Holland was underutilized. He has repeatedly demonstrated that he is capable of carrying far heavier dramatic material, yet Nolan gives him surprisingly little opportunity to explore Telemachus’ coming-of-age journey beyond its most basic contours.
Robert Pattinson, however, steals nearly every scene he enters. Rather than portraying Antinous as a fearless tyrant, he plays him as an arrogant, sniveling opportunist whose swagger feels like the strutting of a bantam rooster. It is an unexpectedly entertaining interpretation that makes the character far more interesting than a straightforward villain.
Lupita Nyong’o makes a beautiful Helen of Troy, despite the unfair criticism about her appearance. Bedecked in rich costumes, jewelry, and styling, she looks every inch the legendary queen whose beauty launched a thousand ships. Anne Hathaway also resembles the Penelope I imagined while reading Homer, and her wardrobe deserves special recognition. The costume designers clearly understood the assignment.
The film’s visual imagination is equally impressive. The monsters are magnificent, with Polyphemus ranking among the most terrifying Cyclopes ever committed to film (cue me covering my eyes for parts of this scene). Circe’s sequence plunges headlong into body horror, producing scenes that are genuinely unsettling without feeling gratuitous (well, not too gratuitous at least). Throughout the film, Nolan demonstrates why he remains one of cinema’s great visual storytellers. The man trusts his actors (like Harry Styles in Dunkirk), his cinematography, and the audience’s intelligence rather than relying on endless exposition. Ironically, that restraint often becomes one of the film’s greatest strengths because the dialogue so frequently proves to be its weakest element.
Then there is Argos.
Sweet, faithful Argos.
Watching the old hunting dog wait two decades simply to see his master one final time before peacefully allowing himself to die definitely summoned a few repressed emotions. Homer understood something that storytellers have known for thousands of years: if you want to reduce an audience to tears, let the dog remain loyal. Argos knows his business. A true actor in the style of Laurence Olivier.
Good boy.
Final Thoughts
Christopher Nolan has created a beautiful film, assembled an outstanding cast, and delivered unforgettable monsters, extraordinary visuals, and several remarkable performances. The Odyssey succeeds, and at its best, it reminds us why Nolan remains one of the most gifted filmmakers of his generation.
Yet for all its grandeur, the film misunderstands the heart of Homer’s epic. The Odyssey has survived for nearly three thousand years because it recognizes that no victory, kingdom, adventure, or earthly glory can rival the desire to return home to the people who love us. Odysseus does not need to discover whether home matters. His longing for Ithaca gives meaning to every hardship he endures and every temptation he refuses.
Homer already gave us that story. He built the wheel. Christopher Nolan did not need to reinvent it.
