Joan of Arc

I’ll admit, I approached this skeptical. Mark Twain, the man who skewered hypocrisy in *Huck Finn*, writing a hagiography? But within minutes, Michael Anthony’s narration sold me. His voice has that rare grit—like a veteran storyteller who’s seen too much but still believes in miracles. When he delivers Joan’s trial responses, her defiance crackles; when he narrates Twain’s own asides, there’s a weary wisdom, as if he’s channeling the author’s late-in-life disillusionment with humanity *except* for this one luminous exception. The production shines in its restraint. No dramatic sound effects, just Anthony’s voice and Twain’s words, trusting the material to land. And land it does—especially in the second act, where the siege scenes are so vivid you’ll flinch at the clash of armor. My only critique? The early chapters meander through Joan’s childhood with a folksy charm that drags slightly. And while Anthony’s French pronunciations are serviceable, they lack the musicality a native speaker might bring. But these are quibbles. The real triumph is how Twain’s *rage*—at the church, at politics, at the betrayal of purity—feels startlingly modern. By the final hour, as Joan’s pyre crackles in your ears, you’ll understand why Twain called this his finest work. It’s not just history; it’s a eulogy for faith in a cynical world.