In the spring of 2026, audiences will walk out of theaters carrying that single sentence like a stone in the chest. Medusa: The Cursed One is not another CGI-heavy mythological blockbuster. It is a slow-burning tragedy dressed in dark fantasy armor, a film that dares to ask: What if the most feared creature in Greek lore was the most human of all? What if her gaze did not merely petrify men, but crystallized their deepest fears, their guilt, their shame? And what if the gods who cursed her were the true monsters?

Angelina Jolie is Medusa. Keanu Reeves is Perseus. And together they deliver one of the most emotionally devastating, visually arresting, and philosophically fearless films of the decade.

The Myth Reborn

The story begins — as all Greek tragedies do — with divine cruelty disguised as justice.

Medusa (Jolie) is not yet the gorgon of legend. She is a priestess of Athena, beautiful, devout, and fiercely independent in a world that punishes both beauty and independence in women. When Poseidon (a towering, sea-dripping figure voiced with chilling calm by Javier Bardem) assaults her inside Athena’s temple, the goddess does not punish the god. She punishes the victim. Athena’s curse is merciless: Medusa’s hair becomes living serpents, her gaze becomes lethal stone, and her very existence is branded abomination. Banished to a desolate island cave at the edge of the known world, she survives — not as a predator, but as a recluse who has learned that the safest thing for everyone is her solitude.

Years later, Perseus (Reeves), a demigod son of Zeus raised as a mortal fisherman, receives a prophecy: only by slaying Medusa can he save his dying mother Danaë from the tyrant king Polydectes. But this is not the swaggering hero of ancient vases. This Perseus is weary, guilt-ridden, and deeply ambivalent about the gods who use mortals as pawns. He does not seek glory; he seeks an end to suffering — his own and others’.

The film’s central act is the journey to Medusa’s island, a descent into psychological and literal darkness. Cinematographer Greig Fraser (Dune, The Batman) shoots the Aegean as a place of oppressive beauty: black-sand beaches under bruised skies, olive trees twisted like anguished hands, caves lit only by bioluminescent algae that makes every surface glow sickly green. When Perseus finally enters Medusa’s lair, the film becomes something else entirely — a two-hander chamber piece between monster and hero, predator and prey, victim and executioner.

Angelina Jolie’s Medusa: A Career-Defining Triumph

Jolie does not play Medusa as a villain. She plays her as a woman who has been punished for surviving violation. Her performance is built on restraint: long silences, deliberate stillness, the coiled tension of someone who knows any sudden movement can destroy. When she speaks — voice low, almost whispered — every word carries centuries of grief.

The most devastating scene occurs not in battle, but in conversation.

Perseus, having evaded her gaze by using the reflection in his shield, lowers the weapon and asks the question no hero before him ever asked:

“Why do you not kill me?”

Medusa answers without turning:

“Because you are the first man who looked at me without fear… or desire. Only pity. And pity is worse than either.”

The camera lingers on Jolie’s face — half in shadow, serpents writhing slowly like living grief. Tears — real tears — trace paths through the dust on her cheeks. It is not melodramatic; it is unbearable. The audience feels complicit in centuries of myth-making that reduced this woman to a monster to be slain.

Jolie’s physical transformation is equally remarkable. Prosthetic serpents move with uncanny realism (thanks to Weta Workshop’s animatronic work), yet the true horror is in her eyes — eyes that once held devotion, now holding only resignation. When she finally turns her gaze on Perseus, she does not weaponize it. She simply lets him see what she has become — and what the gods have made her.

Keanu Reeves’ Perseus: The Quietest Hero

Reeves delivers perhaps his most restrained performance since The Matrix. This Perseus is not the muscle-bound demigod of tradition. He is a man who has spent his life running from destiny, from violence, from the gods who claim him as their own. His voice is soft, almost apologetic. When he tells Medusa, “I don’t want to kill you,” the line lands like a confession.

The chemistry between Jolie and Reeves is electric precisely because it is so restrained. There is no romance — only recognition. Two people who have both been used and discarded by the divine. When Perseus finally raises his sword, the moment is not triumphant. It is devastating. He weeps as he strikes. Medusa does not scream. She simply closes her eyes and whispers:

“Thank you.”

The head falls. The body remains upright for a heartbeat — then crumbles to dust. Perseus stands alone in the cave, holding a trophy that feels like a curse. The camera pulls back slowly until he is just a small figure in a vast darkness.

Visual & Sonic Majesty

Guillermo del Toro’s direction is masterful. He treats the myth not as spectacle, but as gothic tragedy. Every frame is painterly: Caravaggio shadows, Goya darkness, Waterhouse melancholy. The color palette is muted — slate blues, bruised purples, candlelit golds — until the moment of Medusa’s death, when the cave is suddenly flooded with cold, unforgiving daylight.

Jóhann Jóhannsson’s posthumous score (completed by Hildur Guðnadóttir) is sparse and devastating: low strings, distant choral voices, the occasional metallic scrape of serpents. Silence is used as aggressively as sound. When Perseus and Medusa speak, the score vanishes completely — letting the words, the breaths, the heartbeat of the moment carry the weight.

Themes That Cut Deep

Beneath the mythological surface, Medusa: The Cursed One is a meditation on victim-blaming, divine injustice, the male gaze, and the price of survival. Medusa is not punished for vanity or promiscuity (as Ovid later claimed); she is punished for being violated in a sacred space. Athena does not avenge her priestess; she erases her. Poseidon is never held accountable. The gods remain untouched. The woman bears the curse.

Perseus, in turn, is forced to confront his own complicity. He is the hero society demands — yet he knows the hero’s path is paved with the bodies of the cursed. The film never lets him off the hook. Even in victory, he is broken.

Reception & Cultural Impact

Early festival screenings (Telluride, Venice, Toronto) have produced near-unanimous acclaim. Jolie is already being called an Oscar frontrunner; Reeves is praised for his most emotionally naked performance since The Matrix Revolutions. The film holds a 9.1/10 on Letterboxd from early viewers and has sparked fierce online debate: Is Medusa’s death mercy or murder? Is Perseus a hero or a tool of the gods? Can a monster ever be redeemed?

The final scene offers no easy comfort. Perseus returns to Polydectes with Medusa’s head — and uses it not to save his mother, but to turn the tyrant king and his court to stone. He walks away, leaving behind a kingdom of statues frozen in terror. The last shot is Perseus alone on the beach, staring at the horizon, Medusa’s head wrapped in cloth at his feet. The waves wash over his boots. He does not move.

Voice-over — Medusa’s, soft and distant:

“They will call you hero. They will carve your name in marble. But every night, when you close your eyes, you will see mine.”

Fade to black.

No title card. No post-credits scene. Just silence.

And somewhere in the dark, a woman who was once a priestess finally rests.

Medusa: The Cursed One opens worldwide March 27, 2026.