The Odyssey, Two Ways: Ezra Pound’s Gothic Remix vs. Christopher Nolan’s IMAX Blockbuster

We’ve all been there: you want to experience the fundamental pillar of Western literature, but you only have three hours to spare. And so yes, maybe the  two best options are a modernist poem translated from a 16th-century Latin cheat-sheet, or Christopher Nolan's blockbuster film 'Odyssey'.

I've just seen Christopher Nolan's movie which is doing the rounds just as I am revisiting Ezra Pound's Cantos. I have just read through Canto 1 for the umpteenth time, with reference material to hand to untangle the narrative, the structure, the complexities. Meantime Christopher Nolan's movie does not disappoint when it comes to time-slicing the narrative, but having a handle on the tale means there are no real challenges to following what's in front of us. 

I think I’d speak for most, that  Nolan's Memento,  Inception, Oppenheimer  timelines, and his recent Rose of Nevada, are tricky. But these pale when reading Pound’s Cantos. And from the start,  Canto I , the poem I am focussing on at the moment, is a translation of a Renaissance Latin text by a guy named Andreas Divus. It  masquerades  as a medieval Viking poem, describing an ancient Greek myth. It is a literary nesting doll that probably needs three university degrees and a map to navigate. And it starts with Book 11 of the Odyssey.

Ironically, Nolan’s treatment is actually the straightforward option here, even though he also starts somewhere down the track of the story’s timeline. He doesn’t include the complete complex Pantheon of interfering Olympian gods, doesn’t for example, include the story of  Princess Nausicaa, but presents a pacy, slick survival movie. Sure, he completely rewrites Homer’s ending so Odysseus and Penelope can sail off into a sunset, but at least nobody has to look up what "In officina Wecheli" means in the footnotes.

The opening 45 minutes were compromised by often mumbled dialogue and yes, of course, the accents - these, apart from the somewhat dry exposition to set the scene, made for a slow start. It took a while for the move to find its stride.

The visual effects are stunning for sure, but I have to say I felt mildly sorry for poor old Polyphemus / Cyclops. He seemed to be minding his own business with his sheep and was being gate-crashed by this band of ne'er do wells!

Nolan, on the other hand, gives us Matt Damon as a deeply traumatised, frowning war veteran. Rather than outwitting the Cyclops with classic literary dialogue – in Homer there  is a strange ambiguity about the encounter. Homer’s  Odysseus outwits Polyphemus by telling the giant his own name is ‘Nobody’ but  Damon’s Odysseus skips the banter entirely and just shoots Polyphemus as a quid-pro-quo against Polyphemus’ devouring of several of his companions . Because nothing says 'ancient mythic cleverness' like a $250 million production budget and tactical archery.

There is currently a much larger argument going on about whether Nolan has understood Homer at all. Emily Wilson, whose translation apparently influenced Nolan, has been extremely critical of the film's psychological, emotional and ethical depth. [ https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v48/n14/emily-wilson/an-uncomplicated-man ] Maybe it’s true that Nolan turns  Odysseus into a conventional tortured protagonist and diminishes some of the qualities — cunning, charm, complexity — that make Homer's Odysseus distinctive.  But this, after all, is an epic movie built to entertain and surprise: most folk know what to expect of the standard epic-movie-format.

So in that format, to find an authentic emotional centre can be tricky. I guess my sympathy for Polyphemus was unexpected, but there is something almost unbearably economical about the scene where the dog Argos recognises Odysseus on his return. Nobody else recognises him. His wife Penelope does not; his son Telemachus does not; the household is full of suitors who certainly don't.  Argos has simply waited all these years, and his purpose is fulfilled. The dog is lying neglected on a heap of dung, old, dirty and covered with ticks. He has been abandoned since his master went away. We are told he has outlived his dog-years in this waiting.  Odysseus sees him but must conceal his identity, so he cannot embrace him or even openly acknowledge him. And then Argos lifts his head. He knows. That tiny act of recognition is all that is needed. Odysseus is finally home, and someone — the creature who has been waiting longest and has nothing to gain from his return — knows him immediately. And so we have that moment: a little movement of Argos’ head, no music required. Argos dies as soon as he has seen his master again.

( So, no Emily Wilson, I do not salute your chattering class hardness of spirit: 'My eyes stayed dry, even for Argos the dog – whose adorableness as a puppy is predictably amped up to suit our animal-loving times.')

So, back to Ezra Pound: If you prefer your classics served up as epic modernist poetry with heavy Anglo-Saxon alliteration and a side of 16th-century publishing history, Pound is your man. But if you want to see a grim, hyper-realistic Matt Damon battle mayhem and  monsters on the largest screen imaginable, stick to Nolan.

Either way, Homer gets a co-screenwriting credit—though his estate probably hasn't seen many New Directions royalty cheques and  isn't seeing as  much as a penny of that billion-dollar box-office return.

 

Dog Days at Blenheim Palace

 

Blenheim Palace has always known how to do scale. The lake, the bridge, the palace - everything is a model  of certainty —  a choreography to make you feel small in a way that’s oddly steadying. After many visits in recent years, I find what I enjoy most isn’t the architecture, the exhibitions – enjoyable as they are  -  or indeed the increasing profile at the palace which reminds visitors of  the life of Winston Churchill. It’s the walking. It is the sense that the estate understands that  people come not just for spectacle but for that recalibration which happens when you move through open space. Even among the crowds in high summer, there seems, as today in scorching heat, to be plenty of space

Blenheim Palace 2025

On several such walks together with my wife, we make sure we visit the Secret Garden. This was created in 1954 by 10th Duke of Marlborough and is designed as a quiet oasis of winding paths, gentle water features and sheltered corners. It has its own character among the many attractions in and around the palace’s 2000 acres. It was initially, a private space for the Duke and his family.

In recent times, the garden had  become  overgrown, but these days  pathways have been reopened, new ponds added and the garden has been  shared with visitors since  2004. More recent restoration has seen the garden flourish into a space for all seasons.

Lately, a new addition has arrived, in the shape of a sculpture of a black dog, a Labrador, with an explanatory sign at its feet.

Winston in the Secret Garden (Click/Tap to enlarge)

And Blenheim has form when it comes to dogs. The International Churchill Society notes that the palace once kept “some eighty servants…on hand to cope with a large dog population,” and that Gladys Deacon, Duchess of Marlborough, was said to have turned the place into “a kennel.” [ See here - opens in new tab]. It’s an almost comic image — spaniels flowing through the corridors like a living tide. We can imagine that dogs have long shaped the emotional atmosphere here, offering chaos or quiet company.

So what of this incarnation?

The new plaque beside the Black Dog sculpture has the explanation. It talks about depression without drama, without the heavy-handedness that so often clings to public messaging. It simply acknowledges that mood has weight, and that walking through Blenheim’s 2000 acres of shifting light can help redistribute it. If you know the Black Dog, you’ll recognise the tone immediately. If you don’t, it’s a gentle reminder that its arrival is always possible, always human.

(Tap/Click to enlarge and read)

Churchill famously referred to his recurring periods of depression as his "Black Dog." Whether or not he coined the phrase (it was already an established expression), he made it part of the public understanding of his inner struggles. Today the "Black Dog" has become one of the best-known metaphors for depression.

The Black Dog feels right here as a companionable presence in a garden built for quietness. The setting becomes something which acknowledges dark moods without spectacle, a shadow that can sit beside you while the leaves shift overhead. Here the Black Dog can stand, neither feared nor romanticised. Here a dog waits patiently by the path not primarily as  a symbol of depression, but as a guide beyond it. Sometimes the first step towards recovery is simply to take the dog for a walk.

Dog Years – for Bertie

 Instead of scattering your ashes, let’s go

for another walk across those swaying

fields you’ll sprint half the length of, sun low

as I dawdle your lead, watch you weaving

free through waist high grasses, time blurring

as wind whittles away at limestone edge.

You’ll sniff your way through these fields, village blinking

distant like so much loose change, a hedge

gifting a perspective that the hardedge

look of things might resolve to melt away,

your single bark now echoing a pledge

to live, as dogs will, in this moment, this day.

So much for memory. Below this ancient shelf

You’re still running, still scattering yourself.

    

      Adapted from a poem by

      Ben Wilkinson