REVIEWS

The new collaborative album from Grammy-nominated MC Alfred Banks and producer Luther Vandals wastes no time addressing the elephant in the room: What is a YesterMonth? In the opener “Step Up,” Banks sings, “People like to run from their past / I like to use it for my future… Yesterday made my path / New day can’t come sooner.” YesterMonth, as described by Banks, is “using your past as a platform to build your future.” This nine-track album with three interludes pays homage to ‘90s payphone skits, providing soliloquies about their personal YesterMonth experiences. Vandals assembles luscious soundscapes for Banks’ timbre and rhymes. The surprise is listening to Banks find comfort in his voice as he sings and leans into hooks and bridges across the album, especially on songs like “Creep (Oh Eye Aye)” and “Sunday Drive (Orlandas’ Redux).” The latter was originally penned as a tribute to Banks’ late brother that he premiered at his sold-out Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra show. The song is for everybody but it is an Easter egg for his dedicated fanbase. The aptly-titled “High Speed” sees Vandals construct a hyper-techno universe for Banks to deliver his most fervent rhymes. It feels like flowing through the neon-glistening streets of an arcade game. The penultimate track “Fly Higher” is reminiscent of a Reflection Eternal B-side. Again, Vandals brings the church, the choir, and the organs as well as an ill sample to make a sanctified and inviting space to join in on the ritual.—Mike 5ive

For the past two years—between establishing themselves firmly in the New Orleans scene and touring across the U.S.—power-pop quartet BADZY has been busy. The fruits of their labor have finally arrived in the form of their first full-length, To The Bone. Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Brian Pretus at Fountainbleau Studios, To The Bone crystallizes the energy and joy of a live BADZY performance. The album’s 13 tracks (which include the three songs that comprise their debut EP, Demonstrations) are deceptively straightforward power-pop and garage rock—“deceptively” because while anyone can write a three-chord rock song, there is a certain skill needed to write songs that are this catchy and still have something to say. Prior to the band’s formation, BADZY’s members—Jacob Clements (lead vocals/guitar), Ali Hijazi (guitar/vocals), Joey Civella (bass/vocals), and Ashley Parrino (drums/vocals)—were already experienced musicians with a lifelong love for the genre, and it’s evident they have been putting in the work these past two years. You can hear the influence artists such as The Replacements, The Ramones, Big Star, and Bruce Springsteen have on all of them, but they are students of these musicians, not mere imitators. —Mary Beth Campbell

To call this latest solo effort from Laura Fisher an experimental album would not be inaccurate, but even that description is too surface level. Fisher—a multi-hyphenate musician whose numerous affiliations and collaborations include Avery Island BCE, loucey, Lyla George, and People Museum—is a protean artist who plays with genre. Written between 2021 and 2023, THE SKY IS A WONDROUS BEING I AM LUCKY TO BE INSIDE includes pure instrumentals, synth pop, and chamber music, each song its own little world connected by Fisher’s distinct voice (literal and figurative). The album is also rich with collaborators, featuring guest vocals from RVBY MY DEAR (“Rose leaving”) and Zetroc (“Indigo.not indigo”) as well as numerous guest instrumentalists, including Adam Keil of Static Head and Butte (who also recorded and mixed the record at Marigny and McKinley Studios) and Theresa Romero (Butte, Avery Island BCE). Across nine songs, Fisher revisits life experiences of varying impact, including the death of a beloved community member (“Rose leaving”), the strange grief that the end of every Mardi Gras season brings (“Half the moon and stars”), and texting with a stranger on Tinder (“Indigo.not indigo”). While these are themes that many artists have explored before, the way that Fisher has arranged everything is a reminder that the stories of our lives are not one single narrative but a series of vignettes, each one leaving a mark in its own way, whether or not we realize it in the moment. —Mary Beth Campbell

Up until the 1990s, Portland, Oregon—like the rest of the Pacific Northwest—was arguably an oft-overlooked outpost. While the darker facets of this region’s history, such as it being a haven for white supremacist groups, cannot and should not be ignored, its strange, Wild West spirit also drew in misfits and a DIY punk crowd. It is from this scrappy community that the Neo Boys formed in 1978, playing a major role in the scene until their breakup in 1983. The first female punk band in Portland to have their music recorded, Neo Boys consisted of sisters Kim and Kt Kincaid (vocals and bass, respectively, and still in their teens when the band formed), Pat Baum (drums), and Jennifer LoBianco (guitar, later replaced by Meg Hentges). Known for their melodic and minimalist sound, Neo Boys’ songs tackled social and feminist critique long before the first Riot Grrrl bands were formed in Olympia, Washington. That they have not been better remembered up until now is less a reflection of their legacy and more an indictment of how our culture decides who gets to tell history and which cultural artifacts are deemed worthy. Thankfully, they are getting their long-overdue recognition with a re-issue of their self-titled album, consisting of their debut, self-titled 7”, and their 1982 EP Crumbling Myths. Neo Boys is reminiscent of The Raincoats, The Slits, Marine Girls, and LiLilPUT (née Kleenex)—unpolished yet deft, jangly punk rock. Standouts include “Rich Man’s Dream,” “Cheap Labor,” and “Time Keeps Time,” all songs that should have been considered punk classics long before this reissue. May the release of Neo Boys not only spark interest in this band, but others like them who are still awaiting their proverbial flowers. —Mary Beth Campbell

Leading the group Sweeping Promises, Caufield Schnug and Lira Mondal present their third album, You Say I Romanticize, which chugs along with a pummelling rhythm throughout. The record tells stories that are full of cinematic imagery, with punchy female vocals that throw back to the 1980s, like the record’s cover image. The messages are messy and compelling, as Mondal sings about a “photo of a photo on the floor” in opening track “Shooting Shadows,” and the “remembering” of a “movie without an ending” in “My Friend’s an Entomologist.” The insistent roughhousing of the music speaks to a kind of optimism, a holding out for deliverance from modern life, a fuse about to be blown. In “Abduction on Camera,” Mondal insists, “You’re all I got and you blow it up” in a driving chorus. Home-recorded over 18 months, the record sits amongst a creative community working out of Kansas, with this album being made between Schnug’s other work producing multiple albums for other bands. In its totality, You Say (released on August 14) evokes the cleansing power of creativity with a sound that is both gut-punching and rewarding. —Eva Karl

Over the course of their first two albums, Leeds quartet Yard Act has gone from primarily guitar-driven music to incorporating string arrangements, choirs, and dancier beats into their repertoire, all while keeping lead vocalist James Smith’s sardonic spoken-word delivery of lyrics about modern life at the center of each track. On You’re Gonna Need A Little Music, their third full-length, I expected them to keep with this tried-and-true formula. And while Yard Act has not completely deviated from form, here the music is not mere background for Smith’s storytelling. Instead, it is given more room to breathe and even drive the songs, perhaps because this is the first time all four members have written an album together in one room and the sense of collaboration is more palpable than their previous efforts. Producer Justin Meldal-Johnsen’s touch (St. Vincent, Nine Inch Nails, Air, Beck, M83) can be heard throughout. The guitars are still there, but so are piano arrangements, shimmering disco beats, funk bass lines, brass band breaks, darker synth elements, and Britpop influence, notably Parklife-era Blur. Smith’s vocal stylings have expanded as well, and while his signature spoken-word, Jarvis Cocker-adjacent delivery is still present, he is also allowing himself to actually sing, invoking Nick Cave and Alex Turner (Arctic Monkeys) at moments. Lyrically, Yard Act’s snark and keen eye for social issues remains intact while also turning inward more than the first two albums. In a time when it is increasingly tempting to stay within an artistic bubble, Yard Act makes a solid case for creating A Little Music that continues to test artistic and intellectual limits. —Mary Beth Campbell

Taking us on a journey through the Quarter, Todd Cirillo places drinking and heartbreak at the center of New Orleans life. Embracing the confessional mode, Cirillo writes of loneliness, luck, alcohol, and what he sees as the life of a poet. Fluent in the language of the barfly, Cirillo’s 41-poem collection is a first-person odyssey that struggles to get past the navel-gazing of its own title. To claim to sit at the heart of New Orleans is a big swing, and one is likely to miss when one is primarily concerned with an inner monologue of lost loves. As beautiful, twisted, and wistful as Quarter nights can be, the poems lack the real color and energy that sit at the heart of this city. There are moments of clarity and beauty, when Cirillo notes the way in which the Mississippi “pays it all no mind,” referring to the antics of the city, and when he speaks of the “searching” feeling one can have when sitting alone at a bar, when you “wanted it to be one of those nights.” However, in these poems, Cirillo’s voice seems to look desperately outward for attention, for confirmation of self, of something—for some slightly naive vision of fantastical love. From the “Creole girl” who greets him, to “saving another victim,” to the female bartenders who are “like motherfucking Teresas,” we find a writer who centers himself in the city’s narrative, one which is far more kaleidoscopically varied in its joy (drunken or not) than these poems suggest. —Eva Karl

Meaghan Garvey turns 40 this year, but she’s still frequently the youngest in the room throughout this melancholy—but very funny—memoir/travelogue detailing visits to aging supper clubs, vernacular art installations, off-kilter historic sites, and innumerable dive bars, as well as her unfortunate choices in boyfriends and drugs. Garvey previously profiled Lana Del Rey for Billboard in 2019, a natural aesthetic pairing, and she’s written music journalism for Pitchfork, VICE, MTV News, and other outlets inspiring where-did-it-all-go-wrong nostalgia in millennials. She writes in a style clearly evolved from the 2010s internet, seasoned with Bill Bryson-style wit and a Didion-esque sense of twilit doom. She recounts road trips, including a visit to a lumberjack competition in the Wisconsin Northwoods and a harrowing stay in a faded riverfront town near St. Louis. There, an innkeeper with a liberal-savior reputation shows her his writings in defense of Hitler. In a lighter chapter, Garvey meanders through northern Minnesota listening to Bob Dylan‘s Time Out of Mind, noting it marked his return to acclaim after years artistically adrift. This book hopefully will clear a similar path for more great writing by Garvey, while demonstrating how Gawker-generation prose stylists can still deliver exciting and innovative work. —Steven Melendez

The Veiled Prophet is a parading and social organization in St. Louis, set up by the city’s elites after the Civil War and a major 1877 labor strike. Its founders took the name and Shriner-esque Orientalist theme from Irish poet Thomas Moore, heavily influenced by New Orleans’ Krewe of Comus. Another influence, argues journalist Devin Thomas O’Shea, was the Ku Klux Klan. An early newspaper illustration of the group’s masked title figure even reused an engraving from an article about KKK rampages. O’Shea’s well-researched book traces the history of the group, whose members have included civic leaders and heads of companies from McDonnell Douglas to Anheuser-Busch, alongside that of the city itself, producing a kind of people’s history of St. Louis. It’s a similar tone to Malcolm Harris‘ Palo Alto or, in New Orleans terms, how one might imagine a collaboration between Richard Campanella and skooks. Veiled Prophet has been criticized by activists for decades: Protesters even unmasked the title prophet at a 1972 ball, revealing an angry Monsanto exec in a bit of Scooby-Doo-like farce. But its relevance ultimately declined with St. Louis itself, as local industrial empires merged into international giants, leaving the long-segregated city’s own future uncertain. —Steven Melendez

This is the fourth installment in Marvel’s What If… novel series, where each entry provides an alternative history of the Marvel universe and its characters while maintaining a shared storyline. In this book, the beloved X-Man Kitty Pryde takes center stage, but in this universe she’s no hero. Instead, the X-Men have died well before they ever recruited her. It’s 1990 and Kitty, a mutant in her early 20s with the ability to phase through solid matter, was instead scooped up by X-Men villain (and eventual member in the comics) Emma Frost to join the wealthy and powerful, elite Hellfire Club. Kitty is a high-ranking member and owes her life to Frost, but she’s keeping a secret: She sees flashes into a different world, where she was a part of the X-Men. She ignores those visions until telepath Betsy Braddock (a.k.a. Pyslocke) walks into her life and tells her she also has visions, and from there Kitty is roped into a mission to travel back to the 1970s to save the X-Men from a dangerous threat and restore the correct timeline. This book is well-written and has good pacing, but the title is a little misleading and should’ve been What If… Kitty Pryde Joined the Hellfire Club? The central question asked in the title doesn’t appear until about two-thirds into the book, and isn’t really answered, and a large chunk of the plot deals with Kitty overcoming the notion she was never meant to be a hero. There’s good character development though, along with action scenes that are depicted in vivid prose, like the scene where the book’s antagonist, Doctor Doom, lays siege to the Xavier Institute for Mutants with an army of robots, blowing the campus grounds to smithereens until it is unrecognizable. Kitty Pryde can function as a standalone, but to understand the storyline underpinning the book’s narrative, it’s best to have read the preceding What If… installments. If you’re a comic book nerd, this may be for you. If not, I’d skip. —Danny Cherry Jr. 

Sophie Thatcher continues having a moment as a sci-fi/horror scream queen on the heels of Heretic and Companion. In Her Private Hell, Thatcher stars as Elle, the lead in a sci-fi spectacle produced by her father and co-starring her stepmother, who was her best friend first. There’s also an influencer trying to get famous, a soldier fighting the yakuza while searching for his daughter, and a serial killer called the Leatherman stalking prey and ripping them apart with his Infinity Gauntlets from a BDSM club. Re-reading those sentences will barely dip your toe into the surreal nature of Nicholas Winding Refn‘s (Drive, Neon Demon) first feature in a decade. The colorblind Dane returns with a dark postmodern fairy tale in his distinct stylized aesthetic, where neon reds and blues help obscure the characters that emerge from the mist in this futuristic city. NWR fans will appreciate his part social satire, part Giallo horror, part action comedy, part Lynchian Skinemax pastiche that feels like some of the worst parts of his other films, but is actually exactly what he set out to do. At a recent Q&A at the River Oaks Theater in Houston, Refn discussed cocaine, heart surgery, and his love of Riverdale before explaining he wanted to make something akin to when he “first came to the U.S. and was clicking through channels.” There was always a little bit of everything on, “not that dissimilar from scrolling,” but there were fewer options and less control. He crams all those genres into Her Private Hell. If you like his style, you’ll appreciate his return to the big screen. But if you don’t, this probably won’t convert you. —Carlos A. Molina

The Invite is a remake of the Spanish film Sentimental (The People Upstairs), based on a play of the same name, and adapted by Rashida Jones and Will McCormack. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve seen in ages. Olivia Wilde and Seth Rogen star as a couple having relationship problems who invite their upstairs neighbors, played by Edward Norton and Penélope Cruz, down for dinner. The tension simmers to a boil until the neighbors proposition the hosts for group sex, well into the film. Using acclaimed psychotherapist and sex researcher Esther Perel as a consultant, the film navigates the dynamics of different relationships in a hilarious and truthful way. Devonté Hynes’ score perfectly manipulates the audience, lulling them into comfort, then screaming when it needs to scream. The real MVP is Wilde, who directs and stars in a claustrophobic one-set masterpiece, cleverly using reflections and symbolism to expand the space and their world beyond just that apartment. Her facial acting carries most of the weight of the film, from when she starts off as a dislikable shrew through her arc of surprise, titillation, resignation, and acceptance. I’ve been a fan of Perel’s work for 20 years, and I feel like I’ve been each of the four characters in different situations in my life, but that’s also why the film is so poignant and effective. Everyone can relate to being unhappy or frustrated in a relationship, romantic or platonic or familial. Everyone can relate to loss, failed aspirations, and the discomfort of small talk with new people. The Invite is well worth exploring, whether you’re in a happy relationship or not. —Carlos A. Molina

Functioning as an exploration of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement and its legacy, I Heard It Through the Grapevine charts the progress of the movement as seen through the commentary of James Baldwin. Opening with a comment by poet Sterling A. Brown, who positions Baldwin as a “visionary and reformer,” the 1982 film questions whether real progress has been made since the heyday of Martin Luther King, Jr. and other campaigners. Baldwin and directors Pat Hartley and Dick Fontaine amplify other Black voices reflecting on the legacy of the movement in America’s broader political history. When the film was restored and re-released in 2024, Richard Brody of The New Yorker cited it as a piece of “political history” that interrogates “the ongoing failure of the United States to make good on the promise of justice and equality for Black Americans.” This film not only contextualizes the Black struggle in the Reagan era, but presents commentary that continues to be necessary in today’s MAGA era, where the struggles of the Civil Rights Movement remain blisteringly relevant. (Gap Tooth Cinema and Jake Perlin will present the Harvard Film Archive’s 2024 restoration of this film at The Broad Theater on August 12.) —Eva Karl

Made 28 years after “the day the music died,” Luis Valdez’s biopic of Mexican American rock’n’roll singer Ritchie Valens tells its star’s story through a constellation of push-pull relationships, loves and losses, and attempts at achieving the American dream. Ritchie seeks not only to better his and his family’s lives, but to also bring a raw energy to rock’n’roll that could only ever hail from the San Fernando Valley, culminating in his famous rendition of “La Bamba,” from its roots in Mexican folk music. As charismatic as he is disarmingly vulnerable, Lou Diamond Phillips’ performance as Valens feels like a realistic portrayal of someone who cannot quite bring themselves to believe their own success. Catching the awkward glances and tentative changes the whole family undergoes while shifting their places in a stratified 1950s America, Valdez’s direction is most eloquent when showing the relationship between Ritchie and his half-brother Bob, whose drinking problem exacerbates how their bond swings from love to jealousy and back again. Esai Morales’ performance as Bob demonstrates a young man both wounded and irrevocably aggressive, stunned at his brother’s rapid ascent to fame, while remaining fiercely loyal. Valdez’s ensemble cast makes for a strong and vivid presentation of the fractured reality of fame, seen through the lens of immigrant family life. (Gap Tooth Cinema and @drdaddyzwhodat will present La Bamba at the Broad Theater on August 19.) —Eva Karl

Peter Bogdanovich’s Academy Award-winning coming-of-age film shows the charmed and entangled mess of a dead-end Texas town in the 1950s, where no one’s business is their own. High school seniors Sonny Crawford (Timothy Bottoms) and Duane Jackson (Jeff Bridges) drive around town with their respective (and temporary) girlfriends, hanging out at the pool hall and going to the pictures, both locales being run by an older businessman they look up to named Sam “The Lion.” On a spontaneous trip during the long hot summer, they head to Mexico, only to find their world irrevocably changed upon their return. Brimming with the curiosities of sexual discovery and boredom’s heaviness, the film recounts not only the crises of the young men, but also the private lives of all the locals who know them. As generations intermingle, regrets and hopes for the future are shared in a place of faded glories and increased precarity. The timelessness of these themes discloses a raw edge of thinking for its era, particularly in its portrayals of promiscuity and young love. (Gap Tooth Cinema and Andy Sarjahani will present The Last Picture Show at The Broad Theater on August 26.) —Eva Karl

Blockbuster movies are a particular collective experience. Everyone enters the theater understanding what’s afoot: You’re engaging in a spectacle of the moment, knowing it costs a lot of money to produce ($250 million, in this case) and that everyone involved expects a big return on investment. Therefore, it has boxes to check: A-list cast, unavoidable ad campaign, merchandising, recognizable story beats. As such, director Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey is a film for the masses—so it’s gonna be hyped, polarizing, and discussed ad nauseam.

Between the “woke” casting backlash, anachronistic costuming, and language criticisms, this movie was controversial before any trailer had been released. Because while it does check all the boxes, this isn’t just any blockbuster: It’s an adaptation of one of the most famous stories of all time. People know The Odyssey, or think they do, and hold many varied expectations.

However, The Odyssey defies containment. It’s Homer’s version of an oral tale passed down mouth-to-ear centuries before being recorded. Each retelling is tailored to the culture, society, and issues of the era. Bards put their own spin on it, embellishing and minimizing where needed to tell the story their way. Translators of the original text have their say, too, as with Emily Wilson’s 2017 everyman translation (the one Nolan allegedly referenced for this film). It’s a fictional tale that’s notoriously difficult to translate, and even more challenging to stage. That’s the appeal—these stories are fluid by design because the Greeks themselves believed in the nuance of myth. Within the context of tradition, Nolan’s Odyssey isn’t some aberrant perversion of truth—it’s pretty much the same old story, repackaged as a blockbuster film for today’s audiences, which are incredibly divided and easily incited.

Despite (or perhaps because of) that, the movie works. Nolan’s emphasis on Zeus’ Law (xenia, the Greeks’ social contract of sacred hospitality) is deployed to raise questions about how we treat people in our own society. His choice to largely portray the gods as cultural influence instead of actual characters speaks to that, too. Their presence is felt, not seen. Monstrous creatures and vengeful gods are juxtaposed with the architected horror of war, violence, and ambition. It’s not Poseidon chasing down Odysseus—it’s trauma, and the karmic retribution of his own actions. Nolan’s Odyssey is about a spiritual journey as much as a literal one, and builds to an emotional climax that is incredibly moving (if not textually explicit).

And through movie magic, the story unfolds spectacularly. The boat voyage scenes feel grueling, the wine-dark sea imbued with the gods’ rage. Practical effects heighten the horrors and make the few special effects feel more real. However, it’s the sound design that gobsmacked me. Richard King and Ludwig Göransson’s score emotionally anchors every scene. Odysseus’ Troy flashbacks are outstanding in that regard, intricately layering the sound piece by piece into a powerful crescendo that’s somehow further amplified with every revisit.

Most of the performances were good, some even great. John Leguizamo shines as loyal Eumaeus, and Robert Pattinson as Antinous plays expertly: twitchy, cowardly, detestable. Tom Holland’s Telemachus is easy to root for, and Elliot Page’s turn as Sinon is heartbreaking and striking. The choice to gloss over Odysseus’ signature acts of cunning and hubris allows for a different rendition of the legendary hero, one whose masculinity is grounded in something deeper than reputation and self-regard. In Matt Damon’s grounded portrayal, we witness a haunted man suffering a physically and emotionally brutal journey home. It’s one of many intentional, calculated decisions Nolan makes to tell the story his way.

That said, there’s plenty to dislike, namely Nolan’s Achilles’ heel: his depiction of women. Each female character represents a regrettably one-note characterization that flattens their complexity and humanity. While predictable, it’s still disappointing. That said, Lupita Nyong’o‘s Helen is haunting, and Samantha Morton’s too-brief Circe scenes are unforgettable. I did not care for Anne Hathaway‘s Penelope performance at all: The tantrums, impulsiveness, and misdirected rage feel implausible for a strategic queen who’s been loyally waiting 20 years for her king. Additionally, Himesh Patel’s Eurylochus is written muddily: simultaneously a synecdoche of all the Ithacan crew and an individual foil to Odysseus. Some superfluous made-up action scenes add nothing, and there is a lot of gratuitous dog death (although I teared up at the Argos reunion).

There are other questionable choices. Why isn’t a single Greek actor featured? It would have been easy to do. Why the sword-and-sandals-meets-Batman costuming? There was so much charcoal grey and oatmeal beige, it felt like costume designer Ellen Mirojnick bulk-ordered from Quince. And why was the Trojan Horse yassified to such an absurd degree? Presumably to sell $70 popcorn buckets.

But all those criticisms boil down to the decision to adapt The Odyssey into a Hollywood blockbuster film in 2026. Christopher Nolan can make any movie with any IP he wants to. He chose to make this one, knowing it could never please everyone. As my partner put it: “The decision to make this film means constantly having to make impossible choices you know you’ll have to answer for. No matter what you choose, the opposite can be justified equally.” That’s what it means to make art, especially in a social media-ruled era in which everyone’s a critic. Not everyone is going to like the way you tell the story, and that’s inevitable. What’s important is the message. And this rendition of it is important, defiantly original, and very well-made; a fitting Odyssey for our times. —Terra Durio

The New Orleans Shakespeare Festival’s 2026 production of Macbeth was transformative—it gently grabs you by the throat, crawls under your skin, and demands you face the ways the world can change you, and what you could become if you gain or lose too much. For Macbeth, director Graham Burk employed the Lupin Theatre’s black box theater-in-the-round, where a centered sandbox stage became a coliseum for the political and internal struggles depicted. The staging was spectacular: Five entrances allowed for a sense of movement and pacing that effortlessly propelled the action. Using projectors perched discreetly overhead and screens encircling the amphitheater above the audience, that sandbox seamlessly transformed from a battlefield to a witches’ nest, a castle greathall, and a forest. Deployed magically during the Witches’ scenes, those special effects illuminated the dark forces at play. Propwork was minimal, allowing the players to do the worldbuilding. Every single piece of Kaci Thomassie’s haute couture costume design was impeccably tailored, with the materials themselves signifying the players’ hierarchy: leather, chains, and grommets for the warriors, suits for the royal court, tartan for the kinsmen, and textiles for everyone else. These details were impeccable, down to each button and belt. When Lady Macbeth (Jana Mestecky) entered, I gasped—her bespoke suitdress, tie, and fastidiously buttoned pant/blouse combination so perfectly revealed her “unsexed” nature, her natural leadership, and her thirst for power. The triumph of her rise to Queen was marked pointedly by a voluminous suited ballgown, and the stark deterioration into madness exemplified by a regal, heavy down comforter cape. The acting performances were likewise excellent. As Macbeth, David Lind was relatable and magnetic as he crescendoed into megalomania. Mastecky’s Lady Macbeth commanded the stage as adroitly as she initially maneuvers Macbeth. Robert A. Mitchell’s Duncan was a memorable monarchical foil to Macbeth’s slimy sovereign, demonstrating what a true king should be. Edward Carter Simon‘s Macduff was particularly compelling—he was only in a handful of scenes, but his presence commanded attention, a portent of his role in the prophecy of Macbeth’s downfall. When he learns of his family’s murder, his grief was so palpable it brought me to tears. The ensemble cast’s chemistry was electric, adeptly illustrating the camaraderie of kinship as well as the emotional devastation of a motherland in dizzying decline. Not a single moment overdrawn or wasted, this three-plus hour production marched determinedly onward to the famous final monologue and titillating climax: During a stripped-down swordfight in the shifting sands of power, Macbeth finally meets his fate. The play perfectly captured the inevitability of destiny, making it feel both agentically intentional and cosmically unavoidable. Audiences deserve timeless versions of the iconic classics, and their infrequency is the true tragedy. However, Burk’s Macbeth was nothing short of unforgettable, exemplifying poetic justice on every level. —Terra Durio