On July 17, 2026, Christopher Nolan releases his adaptation of the Odyssey — a $250 million IMAX epic starring Matt Damon as Odysseus, with Anne Hathaway, Tom Holland, Zendaya, Robert Pattinson, and Charlize Theron. It will be the most expensive film of Nolan’s career, shot entirely on IMAX 70mm cameras across Greece, Italy, Morocco, Iceland, and Scotland. By any measure, it will be a spectacle.

And like most spectacles built on ancient sources, it will almost certainly emphasize the adventure and underemphasize the philosophy.

The monsters will be impressive. The battles will be visceral. Odysseus will be heroic.

What will likely be harder to render in IMAX — what Homer encoded in the poem that no film has yet adequately translated — is the thing that makes the Odyssey not merely a great adventure story but the oldest and most precise account we have of a specific kind of intelligence: the intelligence of the person who is playing a game that will last decades, in conditions of radical uncertainty, against opponents with greater immediate power, while maintaining the psychological coherence necessary to recognize the moment when the long game finally reaches its conclusion.

The Odyssey is not an adventure story with a philosophy attached. It is a philosophy delivered through an adventure. And the philosophy is about something that every person managing a long life needs to understand.

It is about how to last.

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The Choice Homer Made at the Beginning

Homer makes his central argument in the first book of the Iliad — the earlier poem — before the Odyssey begins.

The Iliad opens with Achilles, the greatest warrior alive, choosing between two fates: a short life of maximum glory, or a long life of ordinary obscurity. He chooses the short life. The Iliad is the documentation of that choice and its consequences. Achilles burns brilliantly, achieves the glory he sought, and dies young, having accomplished exactly what he set out to accomplish.

The Odyssey begins where the Iliad ends — after Achilles is dead, after Troy has fallen, after the short game has been played to its conclusion. It follows the man who made the opposite choice.

Odysseus chose to come home. Not to die in glory. Not to achieve the maximum moment. To return — to the life, the family, the home, and the kingdom that existed before the war and that he intended to still exist after it.

This choice defines everything about who Odysseus is and how Homer portrays him. He is not the greatest warrior. Achilles was the greatest warrior. He is not the most beautiful. Paris was more beautiful. He is not the most powerful. Agamemnon commanded larger armies. Odysseus is the most intelligent — which Homer defines very specifically as the capacity to survive, to adapt, to endure, and to find the path home through conditions of radical uncertainty that would have destroyed anyone less precisely calibrated to the requirements of the long game.

The Iliad is about glory. The Odyssey is about survival. And survival, Homer argues, requires a different and more comprehensive kind of intelligence than glory does.

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Odysseus vs. Achilles: The Fundamental Choice

The contrast between Odysseus and Achilles is the structural spine of everything Homer wrote, and it is directly relevant to anyone managing a life across decades.

Achilles is optimized for the moment. His intelligence, his strength, his anger, and his pride are all calibrated for maximum impact in a single, decisive engagement. He is incomparable in the instant of battle. He is catastrophically bad at everything else — at patience, at relationship management, at the capacity to subordinate the present moment to a longer-term goal. When Agamemnon takes his prize, Achilles sulks in his tent and refuses to fight, costing the Greek army thousands of lives and nearly losing the entire war. His pride cannot accommodate the strategic requirement to delay gratification. And this inability — this precise incapacity for the long game — is what kills him. Not Achilles killing is enemies but Achilles optimizing for the moment above all else.

Odysseus is optimized for duration. His intelligence is specifically the intelligence of the person who never forgets where they are trying to go — who can be tortured, shipwrecked, seduced, transformed, imprisoned, and humiliated, and who never loses sight of the destination. He can lie when lying serves the purpose. He can pretend weakness when weakness is strategically necessary. He can accept the assistance of people he dislikes and endure the humiliation of people he could destroy, because the destruction would cost him more than the humiliation. His pride is real — the scene in which he finally reveals himself to the suitors is one of the most dramatically satisfying moments in ancient literature. But his pride is under the management of his intelligence. It is released when it serves the long game, not when it feels good.

This is the fundamental distinction between the two men, and between the two philosophies they represent. Achilles is the philosophy of the maximum moment. Odysseus is the philosophy of the long return.

Both are valid. Homer does not dismiss Achilles. The Iliad treats him with profound sympathy. But in the Odyssey, Homer is specifically interested in the other case — in what it takes to play the game that does not end in ten years but in twenty, not in a single battle but across ten years of war and ten years of return, in conditions where the greatest dangers are not the most dramatic ones.

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The Monsters Are Not the Monsters

The monsters in the Odyssey — Polyphemus the Cyclops, Scylla and Charybdis, the Sirens, Circe, the Laestrygonians — are what the adaptations emphasize, because they are visually spectacular and narratively exciting.

They are also, in Homer’s framework, the least dangerous things Odysseus encounters.

The Cyclops is dangerous because he is physically overwhelming and cannot be reasoned with. Odysseus defeats him not with strength but with intelligence — specifically with the strategic deception of calling himself “Nobody,” so that when Polyphemus cries out that “Nobody has blinded me,” no one comes to his assistance. This is Odysseus’s signature method: the intelligence that works through indirection, through the creation of situations in which the enemy’s own actions produce the desired outcome.

The Sirens are dangerous because they offer something genuinely desirable — the Sirens know everything that happened at Troy, and Odysseus wants to hear it. He does not pretend the Sirens are not beautiful. He acknowledges the desire and creates the structural condition that allows him to experience it without being destroyed by it. He orders himself tied to the mast. The men’s ears are plugged. The desire is not suppressed — it is contained.

Circe is dangerous because she transforms men into pigs. Odysseus, protected by the herb moly given by Hermes, resists the transformation and then negotiates with Circe from a position of unexpected strength. She becomes an ally. The enemy transformed into resource.

Each monster, in Homer’s telling, represents a specific psychological or strategic danger — the brute force that cannot be reasoned with, the desire that cannot be safely indulged, the hostile force that can be converted — and each encounter demonstrates a specific form of intelligence for dealing with it.

What is more dangerous than any of the monsters is Calypso’s island.

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The Danger of Ease

Calypso is a goddess who loves Odysseus and offers him everything he could want — immortality, physical pleasure, the end of the journey, permanent safety. For seven years, Odysseus lives on her island. He is not imprisoned in any physical sense. He is given every comfort. He is offered the thing that every mortal desires most: the elimination of death.

He refuses. He sits on the beach every day and weeps, longing for home — for the mortal wife, the mortal son, the mortal kingdom, the mortal life that Calypso’s offer would permanently replace.

This is the most counterintuitive moment in the Odyssey, and the most philosophically significant. Odysseus chooses mortality, difficulty, uncertainty, and the risk of failure over immortality, ease, safety, and guaranteed comfort. Not because he is self-destructive. Because Calypso’s island is not home. Because the ease she offers is ease in the wrong direction. Because a life of guaranteed comfort that is not the life he is trying to live is not a solution to his problem — it is a permanent deferral of it, dressed up as an answer.

The Calypso problem is not a mythological one. It is the specific temptation that every person engaged in a long-term project eventually faces — the offer of comfort, ease, and safety that comes with the cost of permanently abandoning the destination. The startup founder offered the acquisition that would end the uncertainty but also end the mission. The artist offered the commercial work that would provide security but require abandoning the authentic voice. The person who has been pursuing something difficult for years, offered the opportunity to stop and have something comfortable instead.

The choice is always the same. And Odysseus’s seven years on Calypso’s island — years he spends weeping, not because Calypso is unkind but because the ease she offers is not the life he is living — is Homer’s most precise account of what the long game actually costs and what it requires.

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Penelope’s Long Game

The Odyssey is not only Odysseus’s story. It is also Penelope’s.

While Odysseus is at Troy and then lost at sea for twenty years, Penelope is managing her own long game — one in which she has far less agency, far less power, and far fewer resources than her husband. The suitors have invaded the palace. They are consuming the estate, pressuring Penelope to choose one of them as a new husband, and making increasingly clear that they will not leave willingly.

Penelope’s response is one of the great strategic performances in ancient literature. She tells the suitors she will choose when she has finished weaving a burial shroud for Odysseus’s aged father, Laertes. She weaves by day and unravels by night. For three years, she maintains this deception — buying time, sustaining the possibility of Odysseus’s return, refusing to foreclose an outcome that the evidence would suggest is already foreclosed.

This is the other long game. Not Odysseus’s game of survival and navigation and the intelligence that finds the path through impossible conditions. Penelope’s game of patience, deception, and the maintenance of possibility under conditions where everyone with power over her situation is pressing toward a resolution she cannot accept.

The suitors are not wrong that Odysseus is almost certainly dead. Twenty years is a long time. The evidence is not favorable. Penelope refuses to accept the evidence as dispositive. Not out of delusion — she knows very well that her husband may never return — but because accepting the evidence as dispositive would foreclose the only outcome she is trying to achieve.

This is the philosophy of the person who is waiting for a long game to conclude while maintaining the structural openness that its conclusion requires. It is one of the hardest psychological positions available — the position of someone who must act as though an uncertain outcome is still possible, for years, while every social pressure around them insists that the uncertainty has resolved.

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The Bow and the Long Preparation

The climax of the Odyssey is not the battle with the Cyclops. It is not the descent into the underworld. It is the moment when Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, strings the great bow that none of the suitors can bend and shoots the arrow through twelve axe handles.

This moment works dramatically because of what precedes it: twenty years of preparation, suffering, and survival, converging on a single instant of decisive action.

The bow test is the suitors’ idea. They do not know that the disguised beggar is Odysseus. They propose the test as a way of determining who will win Penelope — who among them is strong enough to string Odysseus’s bow and shoot the arrow through the axe handles. They expect one of them to succeed. None of them can even string the bow.

Odysseus can string it because he has been stringing it for thirty years. The strength required is not the strength of the person at their physical peak — it is the specific, trained, long-accumulated strength of the person who has been maintaining this capacity across decades. The suitors are younger and apparently stronger. They cannot do what Odysseus can do, because Odysseus’s capability in this specific moment is the product of a relationship with the bow — and with what the bow represents — that spans his entire adult life.

The convergence of the long preparation and the decisive moment is what the climax of the Odyssey demonstrates. The long game does not end in the middle. It ends when the moment that requires everything that was accumulated finally arrives. And the person who has been accumulating — who has maintained the capability, the patience, and the identity across the decades between the beginning and the end — is the person who can act when the moment comes.

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What Homer Wrote About How to Last

The Odyssey is three thousand years old. It is about a man who was gone for twenty years and came back.

These two facts are not unrelated.

The poem has survived because what it describes is structural — not specific to ancient Greece, not specific to war and sea monsters and gods, but specific to the human experience of the long game in any era and any context.

What does it take to last across twenty years of radical uncertainty? To maintain the destination when the destination is not visible? To resist the comfort of Calypso’s island when the discomfort of the journey is the only path home? To arrive, finally, at the moment of decisive action, capable of doing what the years of difficulty have prepared you to do?

Homer’s answer is not heroism in the conventional sense. It is not physical strength, though Odysseus has that. It is not divine favor, though Athena helps him, as she helps anyone whose intelligence earns her respect. It is the specific combination of qualities that the long game demands and that the short game makes unnecessary.

Intelligence that works through indirection rather than force. Patience that is not passive but active — the patience of the person who is always working toward the destination even when the work is invisible. Identity that is robust enough to survive twenty years of disruption, transformation, and pressure without losing the thread of who the person is and where they are trying to go. The capacity to accept help, to convert enemies into resources, to use deception when deception serves the purpose and to reveal strength exactly when the revelation will be most decisive.

And underneath all of this: the refusal to accept Calypso’s offer. The insistence, maintained across years of suffering, that ease in the wrong direction is not ease at all.

Nolan’s film will be spectacular. See it.

And before you do — or after you do — read the poem. Not because the film will get it wrong. But because what Homer actually wrote, underneath the spectacle that any adaptation must foreground, is something that no IMAX camera can capture and no $250 million budget can buy.

It is the map of the long game. The oldest one we have.

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey?
Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey is a 2026 epic film adaptation of Homer’s ancient Greek poem, starring Matt Damon as Odysseus and featuring Anne Hathaway, Tom Holland, Robert Pattinson, Zendaya, and Charlize Theron. Released on July 17, 2026, it is Nolan’s most expensive film, shot entirely on IMAX 70mm cameras across Greece, Italy, Morocco, Iceland, and Scotland, with a budget of $250 million.

What is the central philosophical argument of Homer’s Odyssey?
The central argument of the Odyssey is the contrast between two philosophies of life: Achilles’s philosophy of the maximum moment — the short life of maximum glory — and Odysseus’s philosophy of the long return — the intelligence and patience required to survive across decades of radical uncertainty and find the way home. Homer argues that survival requires a different and more comprehensive kind of intelligence than glory does, one that works through indirection, patience, and the maintenance of identity under conditions designed to destroy it.

What does Calypso’s island represent?
Calypso’s island, where Odysseus spends seven years in comfort and ease while being offered immortality, represents the specific temptation of ease in the wrong direction — the offer of permanent safety and comfort at the cost of permanently abandoning the destination. Odysseus refuses the offer not because he does not want comfort but because Calypso’s comfort is not home. The Calypso problem recurs in every long-term human project: the offer of an easier alternative that requires giving up the goal.

What is Penelope’s long game?
Penelope’s long game is the three-year deception of weaving and unraveling the burial shroud — maintaining the possibility of Odysseus’s return against every social pressure that insists the uncertainty has already resolved. It is the philosophical position of the person who must act as though an uncertain outcome is still possible, for years, without delusion, because accepting the evidence as dispositive would foreclose the only outcome worth achieving.

What does the bow test at the climax represent?
The bow test represents the convergence of long preparation and decisive moment — the instant at which everything accumulated across years of difficulty becomes actionable. Odysseus can string the bow because he has been maintaining this capability across thirty years. The suitors cannot do what Odysseus can do because their capability is not the product of a sustained relationship with what the bow represents. The climax demonstrates that the long game ends when the moment requiring everything that was accumulated finally arrives.

What does the Odyssey teach about lasting across a long life?
The Odyssey teaches that the long game requires a specific combination of qualities: intelligence that works through indirection rather than force; active patience oriented toward a destination; an identity robust enough to survive radical disruption without losing its thread; the capacity to convert enemies into resources; and the refusal to accept ease in the wrong direction as a substitute for the difficulty of the right path. These qualities are not heroic in the conventional sense — they do not produce maximum moments of glory. They produce the person who is still standing, still capable, and still oriented toward home when the decisive moment finally arrives.

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SIGNAL tracks the recurring patterns of human experience across history, philosophy, and science — for people living long enough to encounter them more than once.

For those who intend to last.