Note to self: I don’t know if I’m writing an Author’s Note or an I Digress. I think we’ll only find that out once it’s finished - but I do have a feeling it’s somewhere in between the two. Somehow, that only makes everything even more confusing, but it is what it is.
For the past few weeks - probably months, if I’m honest - I’ve been ridiculously excited about the release of The Odyssey, Christopher Nolan’s new film. I’ve found myself reading every interview, watching every roundtable, trying to figure out where they filmed each scene and, perhaps most absurdly, researching the thirty cinemas that will screen the film in IMAX 70mm.
I’ve even caught myself wondering whether it’s worth booking a flight just to watch it - and it probably is.
Somewhere in the middle of all that excitement, I realised I’ve never actually digested why Christopher Nolan’s work means so much to me.
One important note that I’ve never really shared publicly - and something I keep noticing whenever I meet people who’ve followed my work for years but have never actually met me - is that I didn’t study photography because I was obsessed with fashion.
Which, honestly, probably won’t surprise anyone: I wasn’t.
Don’t get me wrong - I care deeply about aesthetics, but fashion has never been where I invest my attention or my money; I did spend years photographing fashion weeks, editorials, and campaigns, so I completely understand why it looks like the obvious explanation - it just isn’t.
The reason I studied photography - and spent so many years studying it - was cinema. That was always the plan.
I pursued postgraduate studies in photography for cinema. I applied to schools abroad and even looked into programmes in New York.
Life, of course, had other plans, and somehow I ended up much closer to fashion than film.
And that’s perfectly fine; I still love what those years gave me.
But my obsession with cinema never really left (our home is unapologetically built around watching films properly. It’s obviously not a cinema, but we’ve invested in making it feel like one).
When it comes to cinema itself, I did what everyone does when they first fall in love with it: Tarkovsky, Bergman, Kurosawa, Antonioni, Béla Tarr - I loved them. I still do.
But over the years, I’ve realised that we’ve allowed “great cinema” to become almost synonymous with “difficult cinema.”
As if complexity were the only path to artistic legitimacy, as if accessibility somehow diminished artistic value, and there’s something about the idea that great cinema must always be difficult cinema that unintentionally distances people from cinema as an art form.
From cinema as a cultural reference, as something capable of helping us understand ourselves, understand the world.
(And maybe that’s inevitable; not everything needs to be for everyone - Tarkovsky is still one of my favourites and that’s not my point.)
But we can all agree that it is remarkable that there are artists who somehow manage to create work of extraordinary depth while still inviting millions of people into it - and that’s what I truly admire about Christopher Nolan.
Because, for several reasons, I think Christopher Nolan - along with a handful of other directors - has done something incredibly difficult: he’s managed to bring ambitious, deeply personal filmmaking to a genuinely mainstream audience
Not because his films are easy (plot twist, they’re not). And also not because there isn’t an enormous marketing machine behind every release - there absolutely is. (I mean... sending miniature statues with encrypted numbers to journalists and cultural creators that eventually led them to a Discord server? Creating an actual newspaper as part of The Dark Knight campaign? That’s brilliant marketing.) But what I admire is something else entirely.
I see someone who never seems willing to compromise the integrity of the work to make the journey easier.
Someone who builds creative relationships that last decades, who works repeatedly with the same actors, the same composers, the same cinematographers, the same editors. Who keeps returning to the same themes.
Someone who insists on practical effects whenever possible.
Someone who insists on shooting on film. On IMAX.
He continues investing in formats like IMAX because he genuinely believes they’re the best way to tell a particular story - even when that makes everything more expensive, and infinitely more complicated.
(Quick nerdy detour: IMAX 70mm is an analogue film format. The cameras are enormous, incredibly loud, and each film magazine lasts only a few minutes before needing to be replaced. Until very recently, they were simply too noisy to record dialogue properly. They’re wonderfully impractical - which is probably why I admire Nolan’s commitment to them so much.)
Not because it’s easier, but because he believes it’s the best way to tell the story.
(Even when it costs more, even when it takes longer and even when it’s exponentially more complicated.)
That, to me, is fascinating.
A few years ago, after our cat Aurora died, João and I dealt with the grief in a way I definitely wouldn’t recommend as psychological advice. (0/10 - wouldn’t recommend. Trauma therapy is considerably more effective.) We immersed ourselves in a Christopher Nolan marathon (we skipped Memento), and I remember sitting there, film after film, completely in awe.
Not because every film was perfect, but because every film felt unmistakably his. The themes kept returning. The questions kept returning. Even the emotional architecture kept returning.
(I’ve read people argue that Inception was already, in some strange way, preparing him to make The Odyssey - that both stories are, fundamentally, about a man trying to find his way back home to his family. I have no idea whether that’s true, but I love the thought.)
I know this has somehow turned into a love letter to Christopher Nolan, but the more I’ve thought about it over the past few weeks, the more I’ve realised I don’t actually admire Christopher Nolan because of the films themselves, and I honestly don’t think this piece is about Christopher Nolan.
I admire what they represent. Or maybe, more accurately, what they make me believe is still possible.
I think it’s about a question I’ve been thinking about for a long time:
Whether it’s possible to reach more people without saying less, without caring less, without making simpler work simply because simpler work is easier to sell.
I think that's the question I've been trying to answer in my own work, too.
Christopher Nolan isn’t just a filmmaker - he’s a reminder that it’s still possible to build something massively popular without diluting what makes it special.
Without simplifying the vision, without lowering the standard, without treating audiences as though they’re incapable of meeting you halfway, without giving up time, money, or obsessive attention to detail.
That’s incredibly rare (especially today).
Yes, filmmaking is a business - films have to make money. But I’m still fascinated that someone can remain this ambitious while simultaneously filling cinemas all over the world.
In fact, if you try booking tickets for an IMAX screening of The Odyssey right now, you’ll probably understand exactly what I mean. The best seats disappeared a long time ago.
(#Nerdalert: I also love the fact that Christopher Nolan has a preferred seat in a cinema - the exact place where he believes his films should ideally be experienced.)
There’s a lesson in that - for artists and for brands - for anyone trying to build something meaningful: popularity doesn't have to come at the expense of complexity.
Slow and steady.