Everybody’s a critic… And critics love playing the game of gotcha with new adaptations of classics of Western literature. The latest to walk the plank is Christopher Nolan, director of The Odyssey, and his reframings of the source. Artists’ interpretations of Homer in Odysseys for children can be just as distinctive as Nolan’s, so let’s look at how some major illustrators presented some of the main characters.
Athena, advocate, protector, and guide of Odysseus, can be represented in using the traditional iconography of an imposing woman warrior in a helm, draped in a flowing robe that leaves the arms bare, and carrying a spear. 
In the sixteen paintings N. C. Wyeth executed for the family-friendly Houghton edition of 1929, he reimagined the goddess shooting through the air in a naked dress accessorized with a helm, spear, shield, and gold sandals. The figures of Wyeth and Nolan are opposite ends of the spectrum: one of the strikingly feminine figures could pose on the red carpet, the other beg entry to a convent, but only one looks Olympian. Unless you have access to the graphic novel version by Diego Agrimbau and Smilton Roa Klassen. Athena is trim, muscular, and rocks the short toga flying through the air on a mission. Hard to tell how wise she is, but she looks invincible.
The distinguishing traits of Penelope, the model wife–discreet, wise, and blameless—are hard to draw so that they are instantly recognizable. Her wiliness is easy to capture. John Flaxman shows the suitors catching her unravelling Laertes’ shroud one night, but they seem more taken aback than angry. She does not look especially alarmed, but perhaps she expected to be caught at some point. Less dignified but cunning is André François’s Penelope, who is enjoying every second of deceiving the suitors. She is a more worthy partner for the man of many ways than a tall willowy woman in a graceful blue robe crying “I want Odysseus!” and storming out of the room.
Francois is one of the few artists to devote much space to Odysseus’s crew, veterans of the Trojan war whose numbers are whittled down a few at a time, episode by episode. His savage, funny illustrations do not show much sympathy for the louts.
For a time, their chieftain’s clever ruses reduce losses overall, such as when they ride out of the Cyclops’ cave lashed to the bellies of his rams. When the ship shoots past Charybdis, all but the six Scylla snatches are saved. Stranded on the island of the sun,
Odysseus makes them swear not to touch the immortal cattle and sheep of the god Helios. While waiting for a favorable wind, their supplies run out, and the men announce they would rather take the consequences than starve. Some of the fat cattle they slaughter are offered up to Zeus. They feast on more of the animals for six days, even though they can hear the chunks of meat bellow while they roast. When Odysseus and crew are underway again, Zeus splits the ship on the open water with a lightning bolt and fulfills his promise to Helios. All hands are lost. Even if Odysseus had told them that they were not fated to come home, the outcome was inevitable.
Odysseus’ punishment is to be washed up on Ogygia where the nymph Kalypso lives alone. The character asks the illustrator to imagine a woman beautiful enough to prevent the hero from leaving for home for seven years. In the Butcher-Lang translation, H. J. Ford, a major illustrator of Lang’s Color Fairy Books, shows him brooding on the shore, staring out to sea, the nymph behind him, veil billowing, in a transparent gown that seems to be made of cords (Charlize Theron’s gown also had a ropy look). The scene Ford depicts is right out of the book and probably only the youngest or dullest readers will not be able to read between the lines. Others may wonder just how indifferent he was to the attentions of a goddess willing to make him immortal after the dark falls. My guess is that in versions for young readers Kalypso’s complaint about the double standard for goddesses who take mortal men as lovers usually cuts to Athena’s message that it is time for her to let him go.
Odysseus offers perhaps the greatest test of the illustrator’s ability because the epithets associated with him point to the necessity of choosing multiple ways of representing him across all the scenes in which he appears. Odysseus the general is perhaps the most straightforward, although illustrators can slip in surprising details. Neil Packer gives the Greek crisp dark locks but very pale skin.
“Much enduring” could mean nearly drowning during a storm, or being detained by Kalypso. “Many minded” might suggest the scene where he directs his men to sharpen the point of the tree trunk in the fire to blind Polyphemus or grabbing his old nurse Eurycleia by the throat when she recognizes the scar on his leg, so her screams won’t attract attention.Joan Kidgell-Moore coolly depicts how rough Odysseus is with her. His presence of mind never deserts him, even when looking down the whirling maw of water in Charybis. The yellow striped garment looks surprisingly crisp and fresh in Packer’s highly patterned rendering.
The home coming suggests that the epithets “Zeus-born” and “divine” are not empty compliments. Wyeth cleverly foreshadows his triumph in the plate where he wrestles another muscular beggar for the amusement of the suitors. 
Failures of artistic imagination are easy to pick up: Willy Pogany made Odysseus look like a half-naked ephebe; Smilton Roa Klassen draws a body builder, who gets bigger than Alan Ritchson after he sends the arrow through the twelve ax handles.
Francois offers a violent, cartoonish, but not especially gory interpretation of the suitors’ failure to string the great bow and the consequences.
Alice and Martin Provensen were equally successful with the same scenes in a self-consciously “Greek” style. By drawing the bow, the old beggar reveals his identity before sending an arrow through twelve ax handles. This is the Odyssey I had as a child, so I may be blinded by nostalgia. But now I can see how deeply the Provensens shaped my ideas of the epic into adulthood. 
What the illustrator cannot do is let us hear Odysseus speaking to Athena, Alkinoos, Nausicaa, Penelope, Polyphemus, and Telemachus—that is the translator’s job. When the words and pictures work together, readers can enjoy how they reveal different facets of the story.. If they fall short or pull in different directions, readers start to glimpse the challenges The Odyssey always poses to retellers. As it is a truly grand story, it encompasses all its versions without being permanently transformed or obliterated by them. Some one will always be ambitious enough to try to improve on predecessors. No reinterpreter owns The Odyssey, but adds and subtracts.
Some please, others can’t. I admit that Wyeth’s paintings remind me of the painting of an Art Deco nymph riding through the waves on a scallop lashing dolphins that decorated one wall of my hometown’s movie theater, so it’s a reach to take them seriously. Nolan’s Scylla who struck like lightning is not as revolting as the heads of H. J. Ford’s frozen on the page. The film maker’s decision to make Circe a middle-aged farmer’s wife had no basis in the text, yet Samantha Morton’s powerful performance enthralls. By taking away her beauty Nolan can omit the inconvenient episode of Odysseus enjoying her bed and hospitality for a year and send him on his way promptly after his men are restored to their human forms.
Can there ever be a best version of Homer in any language or media? Luckily for us, no. Even if we strenuously object to Nolan’s version of The Odyssey, it’s pleasurable and profitable to participate in the lively public debate about the story’s ethos and all the issues it raises about heroism, loyalty, hospitality, and war which renews it as much as silent readings.
