Christopher Nolan is an exceptional genre-hopper.
The filmmaker has dabbled in everything from science fiction (Interstellar) to biographical dramas (Oppenheimer), superhero stories (The Dark Knight trilogy) to thrillers (Memento). At each step, he manages to make a genre undeniably his own, infusing it with his trademark sleekness and dedication to scale. Even his period pieces — The Prestige, Dunkirk, and Oppenheimer — feel cut from the same cloth as his more future-leaning works.
But with The Odyssey, Nolan lands upon his greatest genre challenge yet: a fantasy epic that’s arguably the most influential story of all time. Homer’s Odyssey comes with the baggage of thousands of years of scholarship, myriad translations, and a legion of anyone who’s ever had a Greek mythology phase having very strong opinions about how each of the poem’s iconic moments should play out. And that’s all before we get to the meat of The Odyssey itself, with its monsters and sorceresses and battles.
So, how does Nolan approach his first foray into epic fantasy? How does he fare when turning his lens to antiquity and one of its foundational myths?
The answer, in a word, is spectacularly. Nolan eschews the sleek modernity that’s come to define his filmography. Instead, he gives himself up to a grimy, haunting take on The Odyssey that weaves myth and history into a devastating, unforgettable reckoning for Odysseus (Matt Damon) himself.
How does Christopher Nolan adapt The Odyssey?
Credit: Melinda Sue Gordon / Universal Pictures
Nolan’s signature non-linear storytelling fits perfectly with the structure of Homer’s Odyssey, which sees multiple narrators take over the epic with their own recollections. The film focuses on two primary storylines, from which Nolan flashes back liberally.
In the first, Ithaca’s Queen Penelope (Anne Hathaway) and her son Telemachus (Tom Holland) wait for King Odysseus’ return, all while weathering a storm of unwanted suitors, including walking slimeball Antinous (Robert Pattinson). They’ve been hounding Penelope’s halls for years, taking advantage of her hospitality in the name of Zeus’ law, a tenet that reminds hosts to respect and provide for their guests, as any of them could be a god in disguise. Naturally, the suitors abuse this mandatory hospitality with their constant drinking, feasting, and harassing of the locals, leaving Penelope and Telemachus in an impossible situation. Do they continue to accept these indignities? Or do they push back and risk angering the gods?
As Penelope and Telemachus wait out their eternal nightmare, they, along with Odysseus’s loyal swineherd Eumaeus (John Leguizamo), recall the king who has been missing for almost 20 years. This is how we first meet Odysseus: not as a cunning warrior, but as a family man and an honorable mentor to Ithaca’s youth. Later, when Telemachus visits King Menelaus (Jon Bernthal) in Sparta, he’ll hear stories about his father’s Trojan Horse scheme, and how he ended the Trojan War.
These are the bits and pieces we get of Odysseus, meted out bit by bit by Nolan and deft editing from Jennifer Lame. But what of the man himself? Who is the reality behind the myth?
By the time we meet the true Odysseus, not someone filtered through memory or oral storytelling, he’s an aimless man. He’s stranded on the island Ogygia with the nymph Calypso (Charlize Theron), with little memory of what came before. He’s restless, though, and as Calypso prompts him to recount his journey, out spill the most iconic events of The Odyssey: cyclopes, sirens, and more.
The Odyssey‘s fantasy is both extremely Nolan and extremely grotesque.
Matt Damon in “The Odyssey.”
Credit: Melinda Sue Gordon / Universal Pictures
The challenges Odysseus’ faces on his journey have become familiar cultural touchstones, across thousands of years in art, film, TV, literature, video games, theatre, and more. Yet Nolan, in 2026, still manages to put his own twist on them.
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In Inception, the dreams Nolan conjured up never shifted too far from our reality, instead warping familiar landscapes. The same goes for The Odyssey‘s understated fantasy elements, which blend into the film’s rocky crags and vibrant shrubbery. (Seriously, this is Nolan’s lushest film, brought to life by cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema.) Sirens are glimpsed from afar. The monster Scylla’s true form appears in fragments. The Earth-feared gods appear only as natural phenomena — claps of thunder, raging storms — leaving viewers to wonder whether these are truly acts of providence or not. The exception here is Zendaya’s goddess Athena, who counsels Odysseus, but even she isn’t carrying out acts of divine intervention willy-nilly.
While this more grounded approach to fantasy is pure Nolan, what really sets his Odyssey apart, especially in his own filmography, is his willingness to lean in to the grotesque absurdity of the myth.
You heard me right: Nolan gets grotesque. Once, I would have found this unthinkable. For the most part, Nolan’s films shine with a clean composure. Men in sharp suits. Glossy tech. Even the soldiers in Dunkirk aren’t overly bloodied, and Interstellar‘s dust storms don’t stick to the protagonists for long.
Yet The Odyssey revels in the muck and oddity of its mythic Bronze Age. The Trojan Horse wait leaves soldiers silently trapped in filthy water and their own waste. During a trip to Hades, shades rise from dark sands and drink sacrificial blood, delivering hard truths with dirtied faces. The Goya-inspired cyclops Polyphemus’ (Bill Irwin) twisted face and disconcerting movements turn him into a creature not just to be feared, but to be fascinated by, even empathized with.
However, this willingness to get weird and gross elevates The Odyssey‘s fantastic elements. Look no further than Odysseus’ crew’s standout encounter with Circe (Samantha Morton), a sorceress who turns unwelcome visitors into animals. Circe wields no wand here. Instead, she transforms through sculpting, kneading, and molding men’s flesh like clay. The sequence is visceral body horror, unlike anything Nolan has done before.
Does The Odyssey fix Christopher Nolan’s woman problem?
Mia Goth and Anne Hathaway in “The Odyssey.”
Credit: Melinda Sue Gordon / Universal Pictures
The meeting with Circe, while brief, also proves that Nolan has comes leaps and bounds when it comes to the role of women in his films, a weak point across his work. (Granted, he’s drawing from source material that features several complicated women. He’s also using a translation by Emily Wilson, who reckoned with women’s role in The Odyssey.) Here, Nolan makes sure to emphasize the women of The Odyssey‘s complexities, as opposed to letting them linger on the sidelines or in dead wife montages. Most importantly, he lets them be angry.
Morton is extraordinary as Circe, simmering with magic and a rage that suggests deeper wounds, all without Nolan feeling the need to graphically spell out her trauma. Elsewhere, Lupita Nyong’o burns in her twin roles of Helen of Troy and Clytemnestra, two queens who have been grievously wronged, and Hathaway is magnificent as Penelope. Forced to remain polite to her suitors, Penelope simmers with a quiet fury, and her moment of catharsis, when it comes, is show-stopping.
The characters of Athena and Calypso are outliers here. The latter role is fairly underwritten, while the former’s quiet presence doesn’t truly coalesce until the end. But both Zendaya and Theron bring a deep gravity to these roles, worthy of each character’s otherworldliness.
Matt Damon is tremendous, as is the rest of The Odyssey‘s cast.
Matt Damon in “The Odyssey.”
Credit: Melinda Sue Gordon / Universal Pictures
Rounding out his already starry ensemble, Nolan has assembled the most “who’s-who” of casts since the powers combined of Barbenheimer. None of his stars rest on their laurels or their A-list status. All deliver.
Holland’s boyishness is the perfect fit for Telemachus’ princely woes, and a nice foil for Pattinson’s scummy turn as the craven Antinous. Himesh Patel is an astounding, grounding force as Odysseus’ second-in-command Eurylochus, and Leguizamo gives a heartbreaking performance as the ever-loyal Eumaeus.
But The Odyssey, of course, belongs to Odysseus. And what an Odysseus Damon is. He plays all shades of Odysseus: the king, the myth, the broken man. Often, he shifts between these aspects in the blink of an eye, one change in posture carrying years’ worth of history. At once mesmerizing and human, it’s a performance worthy of such a legendary character.
Notably, both Nolan and Damon refrain from lionizing Odysseus as an almighty hero. They brilliantly pick at his pride, his errors, his guilt over leaving his family and the steady loss of his crew mates. This remorse compounds over the course of the film, building to a shattering moral reckoning that turns The Odyssey on its head.
The Odyssey‘s magnificent conclusion would not work if Nolan didn’t hold audiences close to the action every step of the way. Yes, the film is a glorious spectacle, boasting vast ocean vistas, armies of giants, and even the occasional sea monster. But Nolan doesn’t just want The Odyssey to be epic. He wants it to be human, too. There’s been so much pre-release discourse about Telemachus calling Odysseus “Dad,” and the film’s language not being archaic or formal enough. (Again, likely influenced by Wilson’s straight-shooting translation.) But this familiar language is more symbolic of Nolan’s broader mission. He has no desire to mystify an already deified text with overly formal language. Instead, he takes us right into the heart of The Odyssey, fantasy, muck, and all. The result is nothing short of masterful.
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