JJ Anderson

This article contains spoilers for the film The Odyssey.

Whether because of its stunning visuals, star-studded cast, or its apparent controversy in the American culture war, everyone has something to say about Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey. Some loved it, some hated it, and others thought it was simply overhyped. But something I have not seen much of is a discussion of the film’s theme and its more literary aspects: the story and moral that lie beyond the surface-level events we are shown. As an author and artist, I believe this is the most important part of any cultural piece, and I hope to explore my thoughts on Nolan’s adaptation of this timeless classic.

Watching The Odyssey was an enrapturing experience for me, not only because of its acting, unique score, beautiful set design, robust and thoughtful film techniques, and immersive action scenes. Many movies with impressive budgets can afford these things, while still lacking the soul that makes a film truly great. To my surprise, I have seen several reviews stating the film had these prior things but was lacking “something”, and so this “something” is the first part I would like to address.

On the surface, the film is about some guy taking his sweet time to return from a ten-year war. He faces monsters and witches, watches his crew die a fated death, eats lotuses for seven years on a deserted island—deliberating all the while that maybe he doesn’t want to go home after all—and then finally (perhaps frustratingly) returns home and reclaims his throne. But wait, then he immediately exiles himself and his wife, leaving the throne to his son, who never knew him and now never will. Poor Penelope and Telemachus, who had to wait twenty years for this.

If this is a viewer’s main takeaway from the film, it is no wonder they are disappointed. And while this synopsis is technically true, it undermines what the movie is actually about. Because I don’t think The Odyssey is merely about a reluctant, washed-up king taking twenty years to return home to his neglected wife and son. I think it’s actually about a haunted man struggling to rediscover the honorable person that he once believed he was; about a man who becomes so terribly lost after making mistakes he cannot undo. Specifically, the violation of his fellow man’s shared humanity by participating in a needless war that led to a tragic and completely preventable genocide: the defilement of his beloved Zeus’ Law.

Early on, we learn key information about the main character and his actions in the Trojan War. Odysseus is portrayed as a man of action, valor, and surprising mercy in his adherence to Zeus’ Law, which commands hosts to respect and honor their guests, because any one of them might be a god in disguise. These are all good things in a king, and he surely knows this. Being clever, brave, and strong are inextricable parts of his identity, a source of his pride. So when the ten-year siege on Troy avails nothing, these traits come in handy in the form of the wooden horse: the product of every talent Odysseus possesses. With this backdrop, we can understand why he had to go to war in the first place and why he chose what he did. He believed the war was justified, perhaps not in itself, but because of his moral obligation as King of Ithaca.

This is where I think Nolan employs an especially intelligent device: an unreliable narrative through nonlinear storytelling. Initially, we, the audience, can’t help but cheer on the siege of Troy. After watching those soldiers suffer miserably inside that cramped wooden horse, it seems a just reward. The story, as presented to us in this moment, encourages these feelings. All the tension and anxiety give way to pure joy as the gates open to Agamemnon’s army. Through Odysseus’ viewpoint at that moment, it surely felt just as victorious.

But as the narrative goes on, the victory at Troy slowly morphs into something sinister. Disjointed fragments of Odysseus’ memories, materializing after he is weaned off the lotus flower’s euphoric effects, begin questioning everything we celebrated in that moment. Flashes of carnage and suffering sometimes suddenly disturb his psyche. Soldiers, dead from Odysseus’ actions, come back to accuse him of being selfish and cruel. The witch Circe sees Odysseus’s men for what they truly are: pillagers who rape, kill, and destroy, while daring to employ Zeus’ Law against those they harm. Perhaps she does the world a mercy by turning them into the pigs they truly were, rather than the men they thought themselves to be.

And yet, early on in his journey, when the King of Ithaca is confronted with pieces of the truth and of the guilt he harbors, he justifies his decisions. He tells everyone, but most importantly himself, that he had no choice, and that war demands sacrifice. While he says these things, however, he knows there is one sacrifice that he cannot justify. A memory he so desperately wants to forget, to the point that he seeks solace in the lotus flower’s spell of ignorant bliss for seven whole years: the destruction of Troy, and his instrumental part in the death and subjugation of an entire city.

As we watch the Athena idol beheaded on that fateful day with this new, biting realization, we see the siege was never anything to celebrate. It was only another savage conquest where innocents, once again, paid the price for the sake of ambition, greed, and lust. We realize all of Odysseus’ strategic genius, bravery, and strength—good traits that defined him—are the very reason he is anything but a good man in this particular moment of his life. He wielded his virtues with pride instead of wisdom and humility, and it cost him, his soldiers, and the people of Troy greatly. If not for these things, if not for the cursed horse, many would still live.

Odysseus clearly realizes this too, as he watches on in horror and shock, already regretting his decisions. He watches the temple of the god of wisdom in warfare be physically and metaphorically destroyed, only to be haunted by her endlessly. He loses everything in his attempt to find his way back, including the pin that Penelope gave him—this same figurine of Athena whom he betrayed. And without this North Star, the guide that should have brought him back to her and his kingdom, he is truly lost. He has no home to return to. That place, the representation of what he and his legacy used to be, no longer exists. So, he chooses to stay blind to his sorrows, because where else can he go?

His journey, when viewed in this way, tells a much deeper story than an epic adventure back to Ithaca. It is the story of an angry man, bitter about his soldiers’ deaths and about his own mistakes. His rage causes him to needlessly strike the already blinded and incapacitated Cyclops, thus cursing his voyage. It is the story of a man who bargains with fate and the gods, trying to evade the consequences of his hubris by preserving the little he still has left: the soldiers under his command who wish to remain the monsters they’ve become by fighting an unjustified war.

At its deepest core, The Odyssey is about the loss of identity after committing atrocities that go against one’s fundamental beliefs, and the insurmountable grief that follows. Who are we when we desecrate ourselves in the service of something lesser than our ideals, and how can we heal from violating ourselves and our fellow man in such a visceral way?

More apparently, the film also makes us question the sacrifices we make for war and, by extension, our deepest desires: the things we are willing to fight for. Do we sacrifice our sanity, our friends, our family for the sake of ambition? After all, Agamemnon needed only to sacrifice his own child to guarantee he would win the war, though it led to his demise later because of the hatred and heartbreak he had caused his wife. During his long absence, Odysseus also caused his wife harm by leaving Penelope in an eternal and confused grief, straddling the line between acceptance and denial every day as she would weave the burial shroud only to undo her work each night. Telemachus languished too, being the heir to Ithaca’s throne yet being nothing but a naive boy without the fatherly guidance he needed to help him become a man.

It is easy to criticize Odysseus for sacrificing everything for this terrible outcome. His soldiers, his family, the good reputation of Greece, and even his sense of self and direction. Even he knows this. And yet, many of us are guilty too; we just have the convenience of technology and the validation of social media to shield ourselves from this same self-introspection.

At this point, however, Odysseus is done going through the stages of grief. After years of denial and turning to unhealthy coping mechanisms, he does not waste more time wondering why he did the things he did, or wishing he could undo them. In returning the pin of Athena, his key to finding his way home, Calypso (the goddess of concealment, who assisted Odysseus in hiding from himself and the world) helps him realize that he is ready to find a way out of the darkness he created. And while he cannot simply go back to the way things were before, by sobering himself, taking responsibility for his actions, and letting go of the guilt and trauma that ailed him, he can finally begin the search for a new home. A new identity.

At the end of the story, Odysseus returns to Ithaca a stranger in his own land. Eschewing the rashness and blind pride that once clouded his judgment, he offers himself up as a simple beggar—an act of humility unfathomable for a king. He confesses his wrongdoings to Penelope without excuse or justification to hide his shame. He strikes down the suitors, vipers who wish to take the only remnant left of his once pristine legacy and home: products of his own inability to heal for so long. And then, reunited with his beloved wife, he forges a new path out west, chasing the future and the setting sun.

Perhaps, at this point, you are thinking I read way too much into this film. But one of the reasons I saw these themes is because I recognize many similar plot beats and emotional exposition; they are similar to those in the series I am writing. My first book, The Edict of Alchemy, is about an honorable king, blinded by a belief so central to his identity that he endangers everyone around him. In the end, he pays for his mistake, but loses himself completely, including the beliefs that once meant everything to him. In this series, I hope to explore that same search for identity, especially when everything we associate with ourselves—our talents, our beliefs, and even our own sense of goodness—is mercilessly stripped from us, or willingly relinquished in a single moment of passion. Because like Odysseus, I want to know how we find a guiding light at the darkest moments of our lives.