A Review of Christopher Nolan's Odyssey

by Brett Rutherford

Christopher Nolan’s film is a triumph, a milestone in the history of ancient-world epics.

A translator of The Odyssey (Emily Wilson), whose work Nolan admired and claimed as an inspiration, has condemned the script and the acting in rather insulting terms, even as interest in the film is driving the sales of her translation up into Harry Potter land.

The slug-like creature known as Elon Mollusk has offered to make his own AI-generated version of The Odyssey, suggesting that Mel Gibson might direct it. All to correct the supposed DEI and “woke” components of the script and casting.

I am myself a captive creature of the classics, having adapted a number of classic Greek poets, and having authored a long poem that is a prequel to The Iliad. I have read various English translations of both epics, and I prefer Lattimore for The Iliad and Fitzgerald for The Odyssey. A peek at Wilson’s translation did not stir me. Therefore I offer the following disconnected comments about The Odyssey from a vantage of great familiarity with the literature and its tradition.

Surprise! I was thrilled and delighted with Nolan’s film.

It is not a linear or literal adaptation of Homer’s poem. Even compressed, that would take maybe 24 hours, or a mini-series running three seasons. What this film offers instead is the heart of The Odyssey’s plot and many of its characters, as re-purposed and re-imagined by a film-maker with a brain of his own, and many points to make about our present-day world, and our own nation’s obsession with war.

The swash-buckling hero of the sword-and-sandal films, this Odysseus is not. He is a war veteran with PTSD, memory loss, drug addiction, and a dread of going home where a line of widows and orphans would meet him on the dock and demand to know what happened to their sons and brothers. For that, he has no answer. He has lost every single man, some in battle at Troy, and the rest in calamities on the war home.

In several flashbacks to the fall of Troy, Odysseus is seen as becoming a passive observer of the carnage his clever invention of the Trojan Horse has brought upon the fallen city. He sees women and children cut down in the streets. The King of Kings of the Greeks, Agamemnon, passes through the gates of Troy in the guise of Darth Vader.

There are no gods in this film. The “Athena” who keeps appearing to counsel him is not the goddess, but one of his shell-shock hallucinations. She is, in fact, an apparition of a priestess of Athena he saw beheaded at Troy. You might have to see the film twice to realize this.

There are monsters in this film, oh yes. A terrific Cyclops who devours humans head first in a direct imitation of the Goya painting Saturn Devouring His Children. The witch Circe is a man-hater, turning house-guests into pigs until she is persuaded by Odysseus to change her ways (the year of sex between witch and warrior are omitted). The whirlpool and hydra-like monster, and the giants, are the stuff of nightmares, and Nolan, not employing AI in any way, uses full size models and various tricks of photography to pull of the remarkable episodes.

Now here I want to digress about these monster stories. The Odyssey begins in “Homer’s” voice, as an omniscient narrator, but all the stories of the mishaps involving enchantresses and monsters, are related by Odysseus himself while he is a guest at dinner. They are table talk bardic episodes. The places and creatures did not exist, and no Greek had ever seen a Cyclops. Odysseus is a cunning man, a trickster, and perhaps a desperate liar because he cannot in any other way account for the loss of his men. None of them, not one, returned from Troy.

The reason I dwell on this is that Nolan gives us Odysseus’s most outlandish tall tale, that of his and his crew’s journey to Hades, through a mysterious “back door” far to the North (Iceland, it seems.) This scene reduced me to rubble. It is unsettling and terrifying, especially to a poet.

Nolan has Odysseus and his men make a hasty retreat from Hades, pursued by the shades of the unburied dead of Ithica. In Homer’s original tall-tale, Odysseus meets more and more famous Greeks going back to the earliest times. He never explains how he recognizes all these ghosts as they approach him to talk, and he stops himself and apologizes to his host. He has overstepped the human and is on over his depth.

What I believe Nolan has perceived, correctly, is that Odysseus has lied his way home, a broken man, and that, once in Ithaca he would have only his tall tales to justify his long absence. Nolan has the hero relate each of these “tales” to Calypso as recovered memories. Which cannot be trusted.

Odysseus’s flashback to Troy is his Oppenheimer moment. Nolan has worked the whole story to bring us here. It is not about ancient Greeks. It is about us. It is about every broken-down veteran in a doorway. It is about the soldier asked to go through the gates of a strange city and kill on sight. It is about the invention of monsters where none exist.

This is a masterpiece of cinema. A masterpiece of story-telling. An experience that will linger for years in the minds of viewers.

I am sorry that classicists are offended. I am sorry that Greeks are offended, claiming that a universal classic belonging to all humankind can be "culturally appropriated" – rubbish!

I am sorry that the film did not have a more high-toned script with more literary language. I did not like Telemachus call his father his “Dad.” That was the director’s choice.

I am sorry that most audiences will not have the context to understand why the Trojan War started, what preceded the fall of Troy, and, hence its effect on those who sacked it. The Odyssey is a sequel, the greatest sequel ever. The violation of hospitality when a prince of Troy stole Helen, the wife of Menelaus, triggered the ten-year siege.

Hades, soon enough, will be full of critics quarreling over Nolan’s Odyssey. The food down there consists mostly of sour cherries, which should suit them.

Twenty-Year New Yorker, After His Exile

by Brett Rutherford

Though I thought I had shed it,
this city has grown on me,
my head-top
soaring amid the
clouds, fingers
outstretched
toward the harbor goddess.

I am all of it —
luster and greed,
poet and dreamer —
landlords unnamed in tinsel-gold
lording it over the Lorca slums —
infant stock brokers
in twin baby prams,
their nanny pushing past
doorways where tattooed
squatter punks rage — the towers
and their polished atriums
clean and classic for an Age of Silver —

cameras watch everything, as bulky men
in blue uniforms eye multiples screens
for back-packed likely suspects, yet eyes
avert from the darkened outer avenues
whose concrete canyons smoke
with suppressed resentment.

I can be all and celebrate all,
make my inkwell of the
things you dare not think of:
the crumbling infraworld
of steam pipes that, bursting,
cook office workers like
lobsters, the rivets and spikes
that loosen beneath the wheels
of the subway, the furtive shadow
that gives itself in doorways
to random takers.

This is Atlantis, Babel, Gomorrah and Tyre,
The Temple of Dendur, Tyrannosaur,
Ming, Ch’ing and Tang ceramic
Carnegie Hall, the Opera, the Symphony,
the thunder-thump of 1812 in the Park.
The nights of undulating ecstasy
sparking still in a hundred thousand eyes
in the city that will not sleep
and will not surrender its secret yearnings,
the pagan embrace of gods in underwear
towering over neon flesh amphitheatre,
Times Square unsquaring America
into Dionysian dervish naked dancing.

I am the weed-lot strewn with mattress springs,
the chaste fountains of Lincoln Center,
the pride of the library lions on Fifth Avenue.
Long-legged Athena strides here in the sunlight —
behind her, a meth Medusa beckoning.
Forward or backward? Where will this city go?
Where its inhabitants?
Jack hammers and dynamite
remake my countenance,
revise my profile.
I am always fleeing this city to save my soul.
I am always coming back
to make it anew in marble.

          —

Revised 2026

Arabesques on The Statue of Liberty (2026 Version)

 by Brett Rutherford

1

Bad Dingo rides

the Staten Island ferry dusk till dawn,

clinging to rail,

nestling an all-night tumescence,

hard at the sight of the robed lady,

vast, unapproachable.

He’s stalking her.

He bides his time.

Some night

there’d be a fog,

a power failure.

He’d come up behind her,

he’d prod the small

of her spine

with his imperious knife,

jostle her bronze buttocks

with his ardent flesh-prod.

She’d drop the tablet;

the torch would sputter.

He’d push her off her pedestal.

Bad Dingo would give it to her good

the way he did to other white ladies

in parks and stairwells and subway cars.

This would be the rape of all rapes,

the pinnacle of his career,

the ultimate boast:

“See that goddess

flat on her back in the harbor —

she ain’t so proud now

since someone had her,

made her moan.

Bad Dingo had her,

stuck it to the Statue,

white lady Liberty!”

2

In Chinatown,

Mrs. Wang mounts

a quiet

rebellion

against the ways of the elders.

She has done all

her mother asked her:

married the boy

the matchmaker ordained,

bore sons and daughters

in regular order,

burned joss and incense

at every altar

sent ghost gold and peaches,

phantom cars and televisions,

Hong Kong Hell dollars

to the teeming, greedy dead.

Now her husband travels,

has mistresses, won’t talk

about his gambling.

Her children are gone,

married to foreign devils.

Her round-eyed grandchildren

will not learn Mandarin,

nor will they send joss wealth

to her once she is dead.

A dream-voice told her, "Live,

and make each day

count as a year."

So she becomes a whirlwind,

sells off her jade and porcelain,

cleans out the savings account,

her husband knew nothing about

buys an airline ticket for San Francisco —

and after that, who knows?

She pawns the statuette

of pearly white Kuan-Yin,

the Goddess of Mercy

whose only blessing

was endless childbirth

and wash this, iron-that.

On a whim she buys another

to take its place at her bedside:

a foot-high Statue of Liberty

with batteries and glowing torch.

She leaves it for her husband,

her wedding ring

on its spiky crown.

3

Today two New York titans

switch places.

A grumpy Green Liberty

strides up Fifth Avenue.

She crushes pedestrians

in verdigris splatter.

Her sandaled feet

send buses flying,

kiosks shattering.

Her great head turns

among the office towers. She reaches in,

pulls screaming executives

through razor-edge panes,

undresses them

with her copper fingers,

discards them one by one

to the pavement

twenty stories below.

The man she wants

is not among them. He’s got

to be a real American,

one of those Arrow shirt models,

blond, and a screamer,

a yielding but unwilling male

under her stern metallic nails.

The more he'd cry outPut me down!

the more she would like him.

Uptown, she finds one —

a tousle-headed messenger,

Viking-blond and thin as a rail —

she scoops him up —

his empty bike totters

and is instantly stolen.

Imperious male that he is,

he bellows Put me down!

She cups him in one palm,

drops her tablet,

rolls up her sleeves,

and starts the painful ascent

of the Empire State Building.

Up there, they would be alone together.

She'd show him the top of the world.

Downtown

on Liberty Island,

a great ape replaces

the green goddess.

King Kong wields a torch,

incinerates all passing freighters,

inspects all passenger ships

to toss away all

who do not meet his standards.

He hurls great boulders skyward,

warns off incoming airplanes

with a shake of his might fists.

Homeland Security Kong,

appointed by the President himself,

he guards the harbor now.

He is a real American

and he shouts his slogans:

America First! Stay out!

Go home!

No foreigners allowed!

    — c. 1987, revised 2026

Ariadne

Titian - Ariadne and Dionysus (Bacchus)

by Brett Rutherford

I’ve walked this edge
of solitude full circle now
a hundred times —
how long before I realized
I was alone, on an island,
a state for which no word exists
but “uninhabited.”

With no one above or below me,
this thing upon my head,
a corona fringed with many jewels
means nothing. If I call,
“Bring nourishment!”
I am my own servant and cook.
Of what am I princess?
Beach, beach, and cliff,
and rocky beach again
and nothing on the horizon.

Sometimes peninsulas appear,
suggesting a path to land,
but sunrise never fails to find
me here, astride the same rock,
the tide withdrawing
or coming in, the beach
a mere arc of a closed circle,
draped with the shorn clothes
of ocean, the false hair
of a reddened jellyfish,
the ribbon green of seaweed. 

Am I not still a missing person?
Does no one search for me?
I launch some fragile bottles —
gourds sealed with wax
or tiny jetsam offerings
I seal with sea-grass and commit
to the receding waves.

Inside them, my tree-bark letters
beg for a hasty rescue.
Others address the gods,
beseeching Poseidon
to dash and drown 

that traitor Theseus —
the man who brought me
to this nowhere,
who lured me with promises
and sea-foam oaths,
who then abandoned me
for his sailors, for the first
prevailing wind to Greece. 

My bottles dash
against the coral reef —
they break too soon,
or fall to the hands
of illiterate fishermen.

From the crown King Minos,
my father, gifted me,
I pick away some diadem gems
and add them to the sea-gift.
Even these bribes
cannot attract a rescuer.
One diamond returned
on the back of a dolphin! 

Here where this jagged mount
of Naxos scrapes sky,
harping a stone calliope
with fingers of wind, I wait,
far off the route of ships.
Someone below the horizon shall hear
the somber moan of this unpeopled place.
Some ship must turn toward me —
before my hag-years are upon me.
I am still young, and worthy of love. 

Is there a spell upon me? Are thousands here
invisible to me, going about
their daily lives, invisible to me?
Am I invisible to them as well?
Why do I find things to eat, and wells
not one of which is dry, at every turn?
Why are there grapes, and olives
if no one tends them? “You'll be fine,”
the lying Theseus assured me. “Naxos
will welcome and honor you.”
Am I a ghost, the walking dead?
Have I already become
A mythological person?

Only a hero can avenge me.
No, only a god can cancel
the vacancy of Theseus
that pulls inside of me
like an inverted birth.
In my dreams I begin to see another,
the purple sails of his galley,
his laughing eyes, the wreath
of grape leaves in his golden hair.
What better bride for an unknown god
than a nearly-forgotten princess? 

Even before he knows my name, at sight of me
he proclaims his undying affection.
No worldly treasures attract him:
as proof of love he hurls my Cretan crown
into the starry vault of heaven.
Strange pipes and cymbals sound, Satyrs
and Maenads attend our wedding.
Whole forests are torn asunder,
and no Greek from this time forward
shall have a sound night's sleep. 

Ungrateful heroes! New gods come out of nowhere,
and the age of Dionysus is upon us!

Plague

by Brett Rutherford

Human Intolerance:
if only it were
a creepy-crawly,
under-the-microscope
bacteria, waving
its little flagella,

if only some pill,
some mineral added
to the drinking water,
some aerosol a plane
could dust from on high
could eradicate, but no!

It is not airborne at all.
The proudly unvaccinated
were already infected.

Human Intolerance,
a worm in the brain
if ever there was one,
is freely spread
by memes and sermons,
by Catholic cardinals,
and demagogue candidates.

It breeds in repression,
guilt and self-loathing,
concealed in casual
   classroom
   locker-room
   barroom chatter.

Millions ashamed of their genitals,
their animal urges,
     their polymorphous nature,
millions insulting the universe
     by worshipping some god
who picks the wings off flies!

Close down their TV ministries!
Bolt up their churches!
Put them in special asylums,
where they can await their rapturing
without annoying the rest of us.

Hurry along, believers,
   to the one who made you
   in his smiting image!

1987, revised July 2011, revised July 2026.

Mill Towns

by Brett Rutherford

Old factories:

how painfully forgotten!

Once, the hopeful immigrants flocked to them.

Workers and foremen built cities around them,

if not exactly blessing the ground they stood on,

grateful at least to have escaped the whip

     or starvation back where they came from.

The railroads webbed out to meet them,

branch lines and sidings eager to take

the crates and bundles outside their gates.

Without them

     the towns have forgotten the reason

          of their founding.

What did they make?

cotton and calico prints,

steam engines and locomotives

parts of machines uncountable

and the tools to make other machines

and their parts uncountable,

rope walks, brass foundries,

lace- and jewelry-making,

light bulb assembly lines,

refrigerators and fountain pens,

and glory! a piano factory —

all now only names in peeling paint

checkered on bricks and falling signs. 

The nearby houses are humbled now

with torn clapboards,

rot beneath the stage paint of shingles,

the cheap bluster of aluminum siding,

walls bloated, foundations shifted,

split into rat-cell studios for commuters.

Many are boarded-up, foreclosed.

No one remembers when mansard slate

and gable and cupola gleamed new,

when a smokestack with a man’s name on it

was a place arrived at as a good sign

of a continued paycheck.

Things that got made here,

kept getting made.

Now these sad brick temples accuse us:

their plywood-covered windows,

their undecipherable placards,

the weed-trees on their loading docks,

the mystery of abandonment.

Like unburied dead they haunt the roadside,

somber in daylight, shunned and abhorred

when their shadows grow long at dusk.

They will not burn, their wearing away

protracted by fences and guardians.

(Heirs living on compounded interest

preserve them like Chinese puzzle boxes

they cannot open or understand.)

At night, another commerce lights up

the sidewalks along the chain-link fence

as women sell the only thing they have

from the pavement, and men in cars

circle, circle, hands offering dollars,

other hands offering, and taking, small

envelopes of powders and crystals.

Some midnights, the ghost machines awaken,

their ungreased axles screaming,

drive shafts spinning of their own accord.

A dynamo turns, and furnace mouths flicker

in the cool blue flame of St. Elmo’s Fire.

The power looms weave an invisible shroud:

it is long enough to enclose a city.

Tombs without occupants,

they wait for the rites that no one will pronounce.

—Pawtucket, Rhode Island, late 1980s.

From Poems from Providence, 1991.

The Ten-Letter Sign

95 Hope Street, Providence RI

by Brett Rutherford

A man who loved books, and who
assumed that others loved them too,
was inclined, in a town so rich
as Providence, to open a shop,
on Hope Street no less! What street
could be more auspicious?

With pride he marched down
to the sign-maker’s emporium
and ordered his name inscribed
in gilded and calligraphic
letters: J. J. COUTANCHE,

and then, in ten bright red
hand-carven woodblocks,
to be nailed above the window:
B O O K S E L L E R.

It was 1902. Streets teemed
with merchants and salesmen,
workers and well-dressed men
hurrying downtown and back.

Newspapers all folded up
they carried, for lack of better
things to occupy their time.
He would see to that.

He had Dickens by the boxcar,
Shakespeare in every mode
from pocket-plays to massive
collections of all the dramas.

From the French, there was
de Maupassant, so droll and moderne.
From the Russian, the latest
novels, from London, fine
bindings in leather rows,
their marbled edges butterflies.

Although he opened early,
stayed late, only a few
impoverished old ladies came.
Seeing his prices,
    they did not come again.

Gradually he came to see
that much of the day-time traffic
was Irish men and women
headed for mass at Saint Joseph’s
directly across the street.
At noontime, men hurtled by,
on their way to saloons
and boxing matches.
No books in their lunch pails!

After five years of this,
Coutanche developed
the most profound contempt
for the people of Providence.
If only he had gone to Boston.

And then, hearing the bells
that rang when his cash-register
did not, watching smug priests
and the resplendent funerals
one after another, 

it dawn upon him
     to change his profession.
He who had once sewn books
would now sew flesh. He who
had rubbed his hands along
the ribs of a leather binding

would now caress the cheeks
of the freshly-dead. The glue
that repaired and made books
whole when they were damaged,
would now be formaldehyde.

He read up on his new
profession. He would learn
as he went; no need
to take lessons or earn
a certificate. Ready at last

to start his new trade,
he laddered up his storefront,
removing the letters
B O O K S E L L
and had the sign-maker’s
emporium make up and paint
in the same block style
U N D E R T A K

His bargain-basement room
with all its penny discards
and damaged bindings
would now house coffins.

The Irish were not particular.
They needed Granny buried
cheaply and lickedy-split.
The priests, for a commission,
would send the grieving
relatives to his door.

He could not make them read,
but, damn, he would
bind them up handsomely
in shiny black caskets!

 

What the War Did

by Brett Rutherford

He blocked a door
I wished to pass through.

His muscled arm,
sweat-beaded
in August heat,
was not going to budge.

“I see the way you look at me,”
he muttered, unsmiling.
“I’ve heard about you.
I know you want me.” —

“That’s just not so,” I said.
I did not say,
“I’m not like that.”
There was no use pretending.

He flexed his arm; his chest
expanded. “I have
a perfect body. I know
you want to touch it.

“They say, at the gym,
I’m like a Greek statue.
If you saw me naked —
best thing that ever
happened to you.”

Imagining myself
in the aftermath,
black-eyed in an alley,
I said, “No thanks,”
Homeward I went,
circling around and back
to be sure I was not followed.

Drafted and gone
to Vietnam, he returned,
shrapnel in skull, with half
his perfect Greek statue
weak and immobilized.

All I can think of today,
passing among
the plaster casts
of discus throwers and warriors
in the sculpture gallery —

figures even now
I do not dare to touch —

is that long-ago offer,
and my refusal.

Not Years Enough

by Brett Rutherford

How many autumns more? I cannot guess.

How slowly thirteen moons go rolling by,

how achingly the thirty dozen days

count off the torn inked sheets of calendar.

Life wrinkles silently, by phases imperceptible

the skull and bones show through the flesh.

More than the other signs of passing

the shelf of unread books accuses me —

not years enough to read them all!

And all those books unwritten, languages

to learn the lilt of, music to shape

beneath the independent fingers —

millions of words and thousands of melodies.

No matter what, the end must come

before the final page is writ, the coda sung.

Composers dreaded to start their Ninth

of symphonies, but trembled all the more

when the Ninth was done, behind them.

How many symphonies would they eke out

before the unrelenting knock of Fate?

If only Sleep, that dark-eyed panda,

were less the brazen thief — if only dreams

could quicken the long drear nights

with more than a passing vision.

I do not need to dream-quest Mt. Yaanek —

a quiet study would do, a reading lamp,

a chair and a sturdy book. My ka,

my lazy double, my astral body

can lounge on a hammock with a Dickens novel,

or browse through the night-locked Athenaeum.

Never too late to learn the names of trees,

of sleeping birds and withered flowers.

Or maybe I’d walk with book in hand

barefoot in graveyard, a midnight reader

of horror tales, epic reciter.

I’d make the dead listen to the Faerie Queene,

count on their fingers the knights and Moors

of the endless Orlando Furioso,

wear them out with the embracing lists,

the straw that stuffs the Song of Myself.

Maybe my eyes would retrace Shakespeare.

But this is Autumn: lamp-dousing time

for my waking self, long nights sliding

to the gravity of solstice, dead leaves

like pages escaping me unreadable.

Not years enough to read them all,

not years enough to count them!

From Poems from Providence, 1991.

Underfoot

by Brett Rutherford

If, on a New York sidewalk, you
walk amiss, the foot first feels it —
some gelid and formless object
that will take hours to remove
from the shoe-sole’s nicks and crannies.
One rapid inhalation tells
if it be horse or dog in scent —
but no! obnoxious, odorous,
it is a Trump I trod upon.

An Afterword for Matthew Paris

by Brett Rutherford​

Dante! -- one sight -- and then
no more of Beatrice, a life
of yearning for an already-
departed Muse. Matthew!
You lucky dog! -- With Jane,
you had a Muse who stayed.

I Dreamt I Was Dante (Revised)

Henry Holiday - Dante and Beatrice (Google Art Project)

by Brett Rutherford 

I dream in mezzanotte silver-gray,
donning the robes of aging Alighieri,
sandalled and aching with brittle legs,
heeding the call of Thanatos —
waking or sleeping? —
I do not know! I feel the dew
upon my ankles, but these feet are numb,
my ankles bony knobs, my toes
the neglected bird-claws of an exile.

The years have browned and scourged
my limbs. An umber moon,
senile amid the drooling clouds,
tilts earthward and winks at me,
changeless and blistering.
the knowing eye of eternity, 

Amid a cypress grove, whose rippled leaves
cat-fur the rigid columns of the sky,
the tree-trunks are deeply furrowed
with weeping moss, and blue drear tears,
unbearable in daylight, collect. How cool
they are, how wise, reflecting in leaf-cups
each one the tiny faces of moon and Venus
(so must we mortals, in mirror'd shields
look on the Gorgon face of Love!) 

Among the trees, close-packed, a maze
made from slab-walls of quarry stone —
square blocks of some god’s
abandoned temple? — an idle Pharaoh’s
never-completed pyramid? —
now an unpeopled catacomb roofed by a vault
of stars! The maze invites my errant feet
to tread its ever-regressive avenues.

You need not tell me what is there.
No carving, no placard
    with a pointing arrow
has been prepared for me,
yet I already know the place
my demon-guided steps will take me. 

At the far heart of this stone-cypress maze,
in a niche cut out of purest marble,
on a pediment of onyx, Beatrice waits.
She is already dead, and I may die
before I ever find her resting place.
There may be stairs beneath it,
     too many to count.

That is the journey, and there is no Virgil,
and although I have read him, his silver lines
fade now to dust motes in my memory.

Beatrice! No matter how long, how fast
I walk, I am no nearer you
than that first sight, when you,
thirteen, scorned to return my gaze.

 --November 16, 2018
Revised and expanded June 22, 2026