Review: Iphigenia

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

A fiery sun blazes in a golden sky, scorching the earth below. Restless insects buzz and drone relentlessly, filling the still, sweltering air with a monotonous cacophony. And draped above a fleet of beached ships, limp sails hang motionlessly, undisturbed by even the gentlest breeze. The opening images of Iphigenia immediately establish the film’s central conflict and narrative stakes. The assembled armies of Greece stand ready to embark on their voyage to wage war against Troy; unfortunately, the weather simply refuses to cooperate. As the days drag on, tedious and interminable, the soldiers, thirsty for “barbarian” blood and ravenous for the glory of battle, grow increasingly impatient—mutiny seems inevitable. Finally, Calchas, a soothsayer within the ranks, offers a solution: the gods, he predicts, will provide favorable conditions for sea travel—if King Agamemnon, commander of the Argive forces, sacrifices his eldest child.

While this sounds like a rather traditional Greek tragedy on the surface (it is, of course, based on a play by Euripides), director Michael Cacoyannis elevates the material by embracing naturalism and mundanity, divorcing the story from any semblance of mythology or mysticism. The prophecy that propels the plot is, after all, delivered by a bitter enemy of our protagonist; Calchas despises Agamemnon for inadvertently slaying a sacred deer on sanctified soil—could he have fabricated “omens” in pursuit of his own petty vendetta? Cunning, ambitious Odysseus certainly appears to believe so, becoming the holy man’s co-conspirator in an effort to seize greater power. Near the climax, he discreetly warns his collaborator that they must hurry: “The wind is starting to blow.” Indeed, as the victim of their machinations ascends the temple steps to meet her doom, the leaves are already beginning to rustle on the subtly swaying tree branches…

But it’s far too late to alter the course of events set in motion by arrogance, pride, and hubris. Although the existence of literal deities remains ambiguous, the actions of mortals are nevertheless governed by Fate, as Agamemnon laments. In this case, however, “fate” is a mere social construct—an abstraction shaped by religious superstition and the tyranny of the collective (the “thousand-headed monster,” to paraphrase our fallen hero). Thus, Iphigenia develops into a profoundly compelling meditation on the theme of obligation: a monarch’s obligation to rule in his subjects’ best interest, a dutiful daughter’s obligation to obey her father’s wishes, and a distraught mother’s obligation to submit to her husband’s authority.

“The needs of the many” have rarely been so mercilessly cruel.