Make Cinema Great Again
Jeffrey St. Clair >
It was 92 in the shade and we fled to the nearest theater to escape the heat and the shrouds of smoke from distant fires that had drifted across the Cascades into the Valley. The movie was “The Odyssey.” Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey, not Homer’s, which quickly became apparent. The screen was 28 meters wide, roughly the width, by the way, of the theater of Dionysus on the south slope of the Acropolis in Athens, where many plays depicting episodes from the Trojan War and the homecoming were performed. The cost of the ticket was $35, much cheaper than the $1,000 some New Yorkers have shelled out for the chance to watch the three-hour epic on 70mm IMAX screens, through the latest innovation of late-capitalism, dynamic pricing. (Thank you, Bruce Springsteen.) In 4th-century Athens, the city-state comped entry fees for the 25,000 people who would assemble to watch the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. Maybe Mamdani will provide a city subsidy for at least a bag of popcorn, which now costs more than a movie ticket did a decade ago, when there was still a film industry in the US.
The less said about Nolan’s film, the better. Frankly, there’s not much to critique. It is what it is, a spectacle in search of a reason to exist, like Cleopatra or Ben Hur or Gone With the Wind. It’s not history. It’s not literature. It’s an entertainment. It’s, in the words of a pretty astute cultural critic: “a joke.” 173 minutes summed up in two words. Top that, Pauline Kael. It is a joke, but alas, not a funny one. Christopher Nolan has no sense of humor. Neither did his hero Stanley Kubrick, but Kubrick at least had the smarts to hire screenwriters like Terry Southern, who did, and actors like Peter Sellers, who could inject a jolt of life into an otherwise dreary exercise in literature-to-big-screen hokum like Lolita.
The funniest thing Nolan did was to cast Matt Damon as Odysseus, the great prankster of Greek literature and not give him one funny line, not even a pun. Nolan has populated his films with recognizable faces, an all-star lineup of Hollywood celebrities. Some of them are fine actors. But not in this film. None of the actors act. They pose and speak, stilted words, arthritic phrases. (In a revealing casting choice, Menelaus, Helen’s cuckolded and abusive husband who scars her face to despoil her legendary beauty, was played by John Bernthal, an outspoken defender of Israel’s genocidal rampages in Gaza, who invited ex-Israeli special forces soldiers onto his Call to Arms and praised their “wet-work”.)
Nolan doesn’t need actors. There’s little room for acting here. Nolan said that because he insists on shooting with 70 mm IMAX cameras, he can only film for three minutes at a time. The demands of character development and emotional depth must be sacrificed to the demands of action. How can Odysseus have the time to think about what he has done or what he will do, when a jump cut must be made every couple of minutes to a new scene of peril? In fact, Nolan doesn’t even need much of a script. It’s all about the images, even when the montage of images is inchoate. The classics scholar Emily Wilson, whose vivid and energetic new translation of The Odyssey Nolan claimed to have consulted for his film, scorched the film, saying she would have been “ashamed to have written any part” of the screenplay.
The heresy, if that’s what you want to call it, in casting Zendaya as Athena and Lupita Nyong’o as Helen (and her sister Clytemnestra) isn’t that they are black actors but that the allegedly “woke” Christopher Nolan gave these black actors so little to do. Like Helen, Nyont’o is one of the world’s most beautiful humans, a rarefied model of the perfection of the species. And that captivating allure shines through her scar-riven face. Nolan gives her a handful of lines, merely to advance the plot. But how does Helen feel about being dragged back to Sparta, bound as a sex-slave and war trophy to the dull-witted man who shredded her face and killed her lover? We’re left in the dark.
Athena may well have been black (see: Martin Bernal’s Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization). As one of the supreme Olympian deities, she was certainly capable of assuming whatever form or skin color she desired and Zendaya may well be the closest living human to a goddess on Earth. But Nolan has her do little more than console Odysseus, while wrapped in a drab woven cloak, looking like Mary Magdalene, patting Jesus on the back. But this is Athena, the great intellect and warrior goddess, who, consumed by petty jealousy (See: the Judgement of Paris), plotted and enabled the sacking of Troy and the genocide of the Trojans and provided a shield of LAPD-like impunity for her favorite killer. We’d like to hear her explain herself.
I’m a little dismayed at MAGA’s hostility toward Nolan. After all, he shares their rosy nostalgia for a past that never existed. He wants to Make Cinema Grand Again in the tradition of Griffith, DeMille, and Ford. Big pictures with big budgets made only on film (despite its environmental consequences) projected onto big screens in big movie palaces. Big, big, big. All of it backed by bankers, private equity, insurers and reinsurers. Nolan’s megalomania is almost Trumpian. But surely the future of movie-making, if it has a future, is elsewhere. At the end of his life, Jean-Luc Godard was making movies shot on his iPhone and found it liberating. The two breakout films of the summer, Obsession and Backrooms, were made by former YouTubers. Why go back? Why chain yourself to the demands of the money men and cinema owners?
COUNTERPUNCH














