Friday, July 31, 2026

Our Age of the Anti-Epic: Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey

 

I generally don't opine here about current or recent films, mainly because I believe a movie needs to resonate with multiple generations of audiences and critics to legitimately be called a classic—thereby aligning it with the name of this blog. It should hold up over many years, even decades. But with all the hype and ballyhoo surrounding the latest cinematic swing at harnessing Homer's The Odyssey, I felt compelled to break with protocol and take a few (figurative) pugilistic swings at this much-anticipated box office behemoth after seeing it in an IMAX theater this past weekend. 

The historical epic has been suffering from shrinkage since the end of its peak era, the late 1950s–early 1960s, at least in part because of filmmakers' over-dependence on CGI, resulting in drab, mock spectacles with a dearth of color, pageantry, and humanity. The promotional catchphrase once associated with the genre, "with a cast of thousands," which for a few years was so commonly used it became a cliché, hasn't applied since the 20th century. So, hearing that the newest version of The Odyssey was shot on locations around the world, and that the special effects were mostly practical rather than computer generated, I had high hopes for this 2026 revisitation to Ancient Greece. 

Alas . . . 

Why I was Underwhelmed by The Odyssey(Caution: Spoilers) 

*Bear in mind that I hold modern actors, art directors, directors of photography, sound designers and mixers, technicians, set designers, screenwriters, producers, and especially directors to a higher standard than those of the distant past. They are, after all, standing on the shoulders of giants, and their work should reflect that. 

- While the nonlinear storytelling in The Odyssey was effective (and probably necessary for this story), I had issues with the pacing and editing—issues I also had with Oppenheimer, director Christopher Nolan's previous blockbuster film. The chronically rapid-fire cutting was constant, exhausting, and at times seemed almost arbitrary. Very few shots, most glaringly during dialogue scenes, were held for more than two or three seconds, which was continually distracting. Many scenes weren't allowed to develop organically. It was almost as if this movie (as with my perception of Oppenheimer) was edited to hold the attention of 13-year-olds. Or Nolan didn't have faith in the screenplay (which he wrote), or he didn't trust his actors—or both—so he attempted to compensate by heavily leaning into these disconcerting, overused editing tricks and distractions. Consequently, there was a sense of dumbing-down and a rushed feel to the film, despite its nearly three-hour length. 

- There was an excessive amount of expositional dialogue, mostly in the first half hour or so. Sometimes exposition is unavoidable, but The Odyssey bends viewers' ears with an onslaught of verbal elucidation to the point of cringe-worthiness. Movies are a visual medium; whenever possible, don't say it—show it. 

The first snippet of The Odyssey to be committed to film was a highly stylized interpretation of Odysseus' encounters with Calypso and Polyphemus in Georges Méliès' L'île de Calypso ou Ulysse et le Géant Polyphème (1905).

- The acting was weak across the board. Matt Damon's performance was passable (at best) for the most part, but unmemorable—not exactly what you want in a representation of the original hero of Western literature. Just about everybody else's performances (with the occasional exceptions of Tom Holland's and John Leguizamo's) were cartoonishly over the top—particularly Robert Pattinson's, who might as well have been wearing the ancient Greek equivalent of a handlebar moustache and a top hat. Some of Anne Hathaway's sporadic bursts of emotion were borderline comical. 

- The color palette was limited and dull overall, giving some sets and locations a one-dimensional, confined feel. Instead of including even a few scenes with splashes of more vibrant hues, if only to provide some contrast and a break for the eyes, the grayed tones were constant and monotonous. When Odysseus and his men were out at sea, why wouldn't a director take advantage of those beautiful, vast locations the film crew traveled so far to capture? Instead, as is the current trend in visual entertainment, most of the seafaring scenery was muted and chromatically blunted. Nolan had an opportunity to make this movie more of an epic, a spectacle in the grand sword-and-sandal tradition, but he very deliberately opted for a dreary, oppressive veneer. Yes, the effect was to serve a purpose* (this Odysseus carries a lot of guilt, suffers from PTSD, there's a dark, ominous anti-war theme running through the film, etc.), I get that. But it was too much of a bad thing. It was overdone and heavy-handed, like so much else in this movie. 

*Nolan even stated in at least one interview that he didn't want his Odyssey to be like a 1950s or '60s film. 

- The much-discussed use of modern American speech (in an effort to make The Odyssey's world seem more palpable and palatable to modern audiences) didn't work for me. It was just another distraction. 

- This borders on nitpicking perhaps, but Odysseus' statement to his wife Penelope (Hathaway), near the end of the film, that "Our Bronze Age is collapsing" must be mentioned, even though it has already been thoroughly lambasted across social media. The Bronze Age, of course, was not called that until much later in history. It's kind of like someone saying, "Man, this World War I is really taking a toll on Europe" while the war is still going on. (Pedantic notation: It was called The Great War until a June 12, 1939 Time magazine article used the phrase World War I for the first time, nearly 21 years after that conflict ended.) 

In 1954, Kirk Douglas starred in the first feature-length film adaptation of The Odyssey. Made in Italy and dubbed in English for the American and British markets, the stylishly mounted Ulisse (Ulysses, a Latin-Roman variant of Odysseus) was one of the best movies to come out of the foreign sword-and-sandal subgenre—which is not to say it was necessarily great in a critical sense. Nevertheless, after having watched it on TV as a youth, disturbing and ethereally powerful images from this film have stayed with me throughout my life. A recent viewing of a restored print on Blu-ray confirmed its lingering power to captivate. Above: Italian two-sheet movie poster from 1954. Below: Douglas as Ulysses and Sylvana Mangano as a haunting Circe.

Wednesday, July 15, 2026

A Dream That Can Be Heard: Ella Sings Rodgers and Hart

Isnt it romantic? 
Music in the night, a dream that can be heard. 
Isnt it romantic? 
Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.
In the late 1950s and early ‘60s, many decades before Rod Stewart ventured into Great American Songbook territory, Ella Fitzgerald recorded the definitive series of Song Book albums for Verve Records. It was a change of direction for the legendary singer; up till then, she had been best known for her 1938 hit recording of a nursery rhyme, “A-Tisket, A-Tasket,” with the Chick Webb Orchestra. She now undertook to interpret works by the most beloved composers of Tin Pan Alley, Broadway, jazz, and Hollywood—Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, Duke Ellington, Irving Berlin, George and Ira Gershwin, Harold Arlen, Jerome Kern, and Johnny Mercer—one album at a time. 
Fitzgerald’s monumental Song Book series, each volume accoutered with extensive liner notes (a practice that was previously reserved for classical music releases), lifted her from a singer of mostly big band, scat, and novelty numbers into the pantheon of iconic* American popular vocalists. Some—including Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Mel Tormé, and Johnny Mathis—called her the best. Ira Gershwin once famously said, I never knew how good our songs were until I heard Ella Fitzgerald sing them.
*I despise the modern cheapening of that overused word, but it truly applies here. 
Following her highly successful Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book double LP, which was the first release on the Verve label (founded by the revolutionary jazz record producer and concert promoter Norman Granz, who was also Ella’s manager beginning in 1954), came her second—and probably my favorite—of the series, Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Rodgers and Hart Song Book. It was recorded 70 years ago, from August 21st to the 31st, 1956.* 
*It was quite a productive month for Ella; just five days prior to the start of these sessions, she had recorded the indispensable Ella and Louis with the great Louis Armstrong.  
Richard Rodgers (left) and Lorenz Hart
Lorenz Hart was a much-lauded lyricist at the time of his tragic passing in 1943, to such a degree that a star-studded biopic of his and Rodgers’ lives (albeit heavily fictionalized), Words and Music, was produced by MGM in 1948. Yet in the decades since, when the name of composer Richard Rodgers is uttered, the knee jerk inclination is to add “and Hammerstein” (Rodgers’ songwriting partner from 1942-60) as naturally as one adds “and Hardy” to the mention of Laurel. But for my money, Hart, who had teamed with Rodgers throughout the 1920s and 1930s, was one of the cleverest, craftiest, and wittiest practitioners of his art, at the very least on a par with the more-celebrated Porter. 
The author of over nine hundred songs, Richard Rodgers was one of the most substantial influencers of 20th century American popular music. He was the first artist to achieve what is now known as “EGOT” status, winning Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony awards during his illustrious career. He also won a Pulitzer, making him the first to receive all five awards, and he was an inaugural Kennedy Center Honoree for lifetime achievement in 1978. 
Despite a sometimes precarious and often turbulent professional partnership, the seemingly alchemical interface of words and music between the two songwriters was like kismet. The seamless, melodic interplay of irony, melancholy, wit, sophistication, romance, and playful innuendo they created together was unrivaled. 
Produced by Granz and arranged and conducted by 26-year-old wunderkind Buddy Bregman—the same team that collaborated with Ella on her Cole Porter offering—the Rodgers and Hart Song Book is a two-record tour de force of American popular music. Scanning its list of tracks, the number of songs that were standards in their day is jaw dropping. Though their notoriety may be lost on modern audiences, the music speaks for itself; its quality is significant and undeniable, no matter the receiving ears and despite any prejudice. 
Buddy Bregman (pictured) had arranged and conducted Bing Sings Whilst Bregman Swings—which contained four tracks by Rodgers and Hart—just two months before working with Ella for a second time in 1956, on the Ella and Louis LP. 
Though two of the numbers from Pal Joey (“There’s a Small Hotel” and “I Could Write a Book”) are now synonymous with Frank Sinatra, who injected his trademark emotive stylings into them on the 1957 film soundtrack, Ella’s superior instrument makes her Song Book interpretations of them irresistible. But she absolutely owns Pal Joey's centerpiece, and a standout on this album, “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” by way of her pristine, detached delivery. 
She’s equally up to the demands of the witty, chutzpah-infused “The Lady is a Tramp” (yet another Sinatra chestnut), the ebullient “Manhattan” (resurrected in the credit sequence of a Mad Men episode in 2007), and the swaying, seductive “You Took Advantage of Me.” Her sleekly lilting version of the pastoral “Mountain Greenery,” her comically indifferent articulation of “To Keep My Love Alive” (in which the morbidly macabre never sounded so blithely appealing), and her sly delivery of the sardonic “I Wish I Were in Love Again” further showcase her vocal versatility.
Also worth singling out are Ella’s sublime readings of the achingly poignant “My Funny Valentine” and the stunning “My Heart Stood Still,” and her beatific, measured rendition of the near-perfect “Isn’t It Romantic”—introduced in Rouben Mamoulian’s delightfully risqué pre-code film Love Me Tonight (1932), which starred Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald. 
Ella Fitzgerald and Norman Granz, circa late 1950s.
At the time of its initial release, the Rodgers and Hart Song Book double LP was highly praised by critics, including Dom Cerulli of DownBeat, who gave it a five-star review. It reached a peak position of #11 on Billboard's Best Selling Popular Albums chart in March of 1957. In 1997 it was reissued on CD by Verve and was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999. All eight volumes of the original series, plus alternate takes and outtakes, were released in a massive 16-CD box set, The Complete Ella Fitzgerald Song Books, in 1994. 
Ella’s Song Book series was part of a handful of final triumphs for Tin Pan Alley and other architects of the Great American Songbook. Rock ‘n’ roll existed at the time, but it would be a few years before it completely took over the hearts, minds, and airwaves of the American public. Sinatra created some of his finest albums in the late 1950s and Broadway was still producing some memorable musicals in the early ‘60s, but the Great American Songbook had pretty much gasped its last by the time psychedelia, then hard rock, took hold in the late ‘60s. Not long after, rock became the currency of popular music, and Broadway became Andrew Lloyd Webber-ized. Once The Dean Martin Show and Bing Crosby’s TV specials ended in the 1970s (the former due to Dean’s disinterest, the latter due to Bing’s death), the way the world defined and disseminated its popular music was, for better or worse, forever altered. Ella’s magnificent Song Book LPs still stand as a lasting testament to a stylish, departed era. 

© Jon Oye, 2026 
Album cover and Time magazine are from my personal collection. 
Buddy Bregman photo source
Ella and Granz photo source.