Odysseus, Luigi Mezzanotte, is a weary navigator aboard a ship bound with a small crew, the sea brushing against the hull as his mind drifts between the present voyage and sharp flashbacks from his childhood. His memory surges with stark images: the sea filling with dead bodies, and brutal scenes from the Trojan War that lay bare the suffering of civilians. The journey unfolds in a slow, dreamlike tempo, and the atmosphere is thick with ache, longing, and the constant pull of memories that refuse to stay submerged beneath the waves.
Among the crew is the Boatswain, Alex Carozzo, whose presence anchors the ship as Odysseus drifts in and out of consciousness. A Sailor Admiring Seagulls and Seals, Giuseppe Marcoli, catches the eye with a quieter, almost ritualized pace of life aboard the vessel. The days drift by until the ship reaches a shore where Odysseus ventures ashore alone to explore a hidden cave, drawn by unfamiliar singing that seems to call out for something lost. In the caverns, a rocky dwelling serves as a strange stage for intimacies and visions, where a woman silently opens a large seashell and lets him embrace her, a moment that lingers like a memory trying to become real.
When he returns to the shore, Odysseus finds his crew missing, and the inland world beckons with its own quiet hazards. He strolls through a landscape of jagged rocks and concealed passages, eventually encountering a space populated by nude, motionless figures and a woman whose presence unsettles and convicts him in equal measure. The encounter is tempered by the ambient hum of the sea and the distant call of birds, a sensory reminder that the journey is as much internal as it is outward. The sense of being watched, of history pressing in from the margins, threads through the encounter and the subsequent escape back to the sea.
Back at sea, there are moments of calm interrupted by haunting music and a fleeting female figure that appears on the water’s edge. A sudden storm rises, tearing at the sails and hurling Odysseus and his companions into the churn of fate. He wakes to find himself alone on a beach, the clothes and helmets that drifted ashore as proof of a catastrophe endured, and he lets a cry of torment rise from deep within. He wanders a while longer, stepping through a land that at first seems abundant with life and color—the flora and fauna teeming with possibility—before memory presses again, and a more intimate connection pulls him into a fleeting relationship with a woman he encounters along the shore.
The journey continues on a simple raft, which soon splinters under the pressure of night and the sea. As he swims, he is pierced by auditory hallucinations of warfare—the clang of metal and the distant roar of battle—that gradually recede, leaving him to fix his gaze on the moon and the quiet that follows. A vision unfolds: he walks through a somber landscape of ruins toward a palace that turns out to be a dark underground passage lined with human skulls. He runs toward the light at its far end, only to appear to fall back into the sea, as if the dream cannot be escaped even within sleep.
Waking yet again on a sunlit beach, Odysseus steps onto land where the world feels newly alive, a place now rich with animals and greenery and with a palace that promises both shelter and memory. The entrance to this place mimics the earlier vision, and the sun pours into the space with a clarity that feels almost sacramental. Inside the atrium, a girl rolls a hoop—a simple, repetitive action steeped in the cadence of Odysseus’s childhood dreams. Through a window, he glimpses the shadow of a woman placing flowers in a vase, and he whispers the name Penelope, a name that anchors his longing to a home he cannot quite grasp again. In the final moment, a woman folds a piece of fabric and places it in a chest, a quiet, domestic ritual that closes the circle of memory and desire while suggesting the persistence of hope amid the open sea.
