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Rating: There is a particular moment, towards the end, that clearly illuminates the essence of this adaptation. Odysseus makes the arrow whistle through the holes of the axes; he is the only one able to do so, yet the suitors dismiss it in two lines and attempt to chase him out of the palace. The hero, however, grabs the quiver full of arrows.
One would have expected an adrenaline-filled scene, full of fury and anger, an exciting triumph.
But no. Pasolini slows down the pace, tames the music, and shows us Ulysses in his ruthless revenge. He chooses to kill defenseless and submissive men, he smears himself with blood, as his son does. And as the slaughter progresses, within us grows a sense of beauty and terror (for human destinies) that belongs only to the great classics, to immortal tragedies.
The condemnation of man, even wise, to commit the most atrocious atrocities to complete an endless chain of death and revenge. The condemnation of Fate which compels us to perpetrate evil despite everything, as the only rationale.
In general, Pasolini's film sets two noble goals. On one hand, it reinterprets, in a deeply modern key, the story of the return to Ithaca. Without goddesses intervening, without magic to protect him, Ulysses seems like a man bent by fatigue, prostrated by pain, transfigured by war. He could act; his physical and intellectual abilities are not lacking, but he hesitates more out of fear than strategy. His plan seems more of a spur-of-the-moment idea than a carefully devised scheme.
In Telemachus, we now see the uncertainties and fragilities of youth, the rebellion towards a father blamed for everything. And Penelope is the upright woman forced to endure the temptations, a tall and hieratic figure, almost the ultimate guardian of wisdom.
On the other hand, what moved and struck me the most is the attempt—largely successful—to give back emotional depth and existential weight to a story that, with its millennial repetition, risks becoming a schematic formula. Pasolini does not chase the book; he brings it to life on the pain-ridden faces of Ralph Fiennes (monumental) and Juliette Binoche.
He seems to tell us: we all know this story, but now let's try to truly feel it, let's try to experience those emotions, understand the struggles of war, tear ourselves apart alongside the protagonists in the tremendous battles for a stony piece of land like Ithaca.
The setting is devoid of allure, a wild island, and these men kill each other for two stones or little more. Like in a Mediterranean "Valhalla Rising," humans slaughter each other continuously, but it is unclear for what, there is nothing on the island apart from man and his ferocity.
Pasolini lingers long on Fiennes's face, which perfectly embodies all the feelings perhaps taken for granted when we used to study Homer in school. Those watery eyes remind us that there still exists a cinema made of reflection, emotions, provocations. A cinema for thinking and feeling, for questioning who we truly are.
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