This is an excellent book – highly recommended for anyone interested in analysis of how Greek tragedy has fared on the big screen. It is thoroughly researched; the level of analysis is very deep, but it is so well-written that it flows easily, even in its thick-description, and keeps one engaged. It is informative and persuasive, and above all, it makes one want to watch movies involving Greek tragedy, amply discussed in the text, with which one may not be familiar.

Classicists interested in film tend to sort into two types: (1) those who focus on the consideration of reasonably straightforward classical elements in movies, and (2) those who seek classical elements that are far from obvious in film sources that do not appear, at first glance, to have any classical allusions at all. I am (as an archaeologist who has developed and taught courses in classics and cinema) of the first camp; M. is very much of the second. As daunting as such a work as this from the second camp proves to be for those of us of the first camp, I would have to say that I came away quite satisfied and, more importantly, educated.

The basic purpose of the book is to answer ‘[t]he need for reconsidering the generic, temporal, and conceptual boundaries for the relation between film and Greek tragedy’ (p. 4). This is done in terms of three ‘overarching concerns’: first, the position of Greek tragedy in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries and its reception on screen (p. 6); second the diversity of methods, technologies and practices in films of Greek tragedy (p. 7); and third the ‘workings and politics of film adaptation’ (p. 8). There are many elements to the conclusion of the study, but one that stands out is the idea that films engaged with Greek tragedy oscillate technologically between providing ‘smoothness’ of dramatic flow as well as ‘realities of shock’ (p. 219). In a very basic sense, that is precisely the appeal of Greek tragedy and the cinema as dramatic art forms. M.'s initial goal is met in impressive fashion and represents a thoughtful and significant contribution to the area of reception studies.

The nine chapters have (with one exception) single word titles, given here in order: ‘Spectatorship’, ‘Canonicity’, ‘Adaptation’, ‘Word and Image’, ‘Media’, ‘Genre’, ‘History’, ‘Time’ and ‘Space’. The chapter on spectatorship includes a very novel (and gutsy) analysis of the silent film, The Legend of Oedipus (1913) directed by Gaston Roudès, based on a couple of stills from publicity for the film and a few seconds of existing footage. In contrast to Sophocles, ‘Oedipus is not a detective but more of an action hero’ (p. 28). From the outset, M. establishes the importance of multiple readings and multivalence. For him, the key to spectatorship is the difference in positions of the viewer (p. 31); in regard to adaptation, using Jules Dassin's A Dream of Passion (1978), we are told that ‘films can activate a number of different methods’ and we are given a list: ‘celebration’ of Euripides' play, ‘updating’ of the play, ‘adjustment’ of the play, ‘commentary’ on the play, superimposition of ‘conventions of art-house cinema’ and a ‘dense web of references’ that ‘complements’ the play (p. 65), creating an ‘endless number of modes, models and strategies’ (p. 79) illustrated by the choice of movies.

Michael Cacoyannis's Electra (1962) and Iphigenia (1977) are prominently featured; as well as: Pier Paolo Pasolini's Oedipus the King (1967) and Medea (1969); Jules Dassin's A Dream of Passion (1978); Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet's Antigone of Sophocles after Hölderlin's Translation Adapted for Stage by Brecht (Suhrkamp Verlag 1948) (1992); Gregory Markopoulos's The Illiac Passion (1967); Werner Herzog's My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (2009); Woody Allen's Mighty Aphrodite (1995); Ingmar Bergman's Persona (1966); Miklós Jancsó's Electra, My Love (1974); Tony Harrison's Prometheus (1998); Lars von Trier's Medea (1988); and Toshio Matsumoto's Funeral Parade of Roses (1969).

A sampling of the treatment of these is all that can be provided here. Cacoyannis' Iphigenia is described as melodrama. Given that is largely a pejorative term, I did not like this very much; however, M. argues powerfully why he accepts that characterisation. In the end, he uses that example, and the example of the comedy Mighty Aphrodite as Greek tragedy to demonstrate ‘the ambiguity and instability of genres as categorical descriptions’ (p. 148) which fits in with the theme of multiple readings. In treating the difficult films Antigone of Sophocles etc. and The Illiac Passion (‘they refuse to be didactic – let alone entertaining … there is a sense of subjectless affectivity … a movie that can be alienating’ [pp. 98–9]), M. manages to redeem them somewhat with the observation that they are part of ‘a fight against the canonization of content through the renewal of form’ (p. 102) even though their ‘very systematic and rational way of approaching the text through sounds and images is devoted to its undoing’ (p. 104). Finally, in discussing Harrison's Prometheus and the film Germany in Autumn, M. illustrates the strong connections between photography, history and the cinema, noting that the strength of the cinema for history is to be able to present realistic re-creations that allow speculation on what happened in the past (p. 169).

Of course there is plenty of discussion of Aristotle's Poetics, including the idea that commercial scriptwriting (p. 44) and ‘[t]he definition and legitimization of the “classical Hollywood narrative” is heavily indebted to Aristotle’ (p. 172). That merely shows how peripatetic Aristotle really has proved, given that Dorothy Sayers, famously in 1936 (‘Aristotle on Detective Fiction’ English 1[1], 23–35), wrote an article stating that Aristotle had provided the best template for detective fiction. One interesting elaboration of the place of Aristotle is the idea that the deus ex machina is, in a couple of the films reviewed, played by a helicopter. Of course Aristotle denounced Euripides' use of the deus, but M. comments that the directors of certain films have used the helicopter (and other aspects of their films) in order to ‘highlight its role as an essential ingredient of a dissonant aesthetic’ (p. 220). So, there is much fruitful pushing of the envelope of the connections between Aristotle and cinema (even horror films and westerns are mentioned as connected to the rubrics of Greek tragedy and Aristotle's Poetics).

One tiny quibble: in a book that abounds with discussion of actors and their performances, I think it odd that the cover, a screen capture of Maria Callas in the role of Medea in Pier Paolo Pasolini's film of that name, mentions her solely in passing on a single page – without discussion of her performance or interpretation of the character.

The afterword ties all the threads effectively together, with the last paragraph recapitulating the various strands of exploration: Greek tragedy broken down into its constituent parts; as an art form interacting with dance, theatre and television; modernised by association with comedy and melodrama; as associated with theatricality and performativity; as a tool for productivity, violence or the shaping of gender identities; as a figurative device working with the narratives of history; and as a structure for conceptualising time and space, fulfilment and redemption, fear, desire and modernity (p. 225). M. asks ‘where does Greek tragedy end?’ (p. 224). Thankfully, he has answered that question thoroughly for the moment, but in such a way as to make us look forward to the continuing journey of Greek tragedy – and film – into our collective future.