The Tragedy of Macbeth Christian Review
There’s something arresting about Joel Coen’s The Tragedy of Macbeth. It creeps under your skin, not with jumps or scares but with a slow, unrelenting dread. The black-and-white cinematography pulls you into a world that feels both ancient and painfully immediate, where ambition twists hearts and consequences can’t be outrun. You feel the weight of it almost immediately, like stepping into a room where someone’s just whispered a secret too dark to repeat.
It’s Shakespeare, sure, but not the kind you skimmed in high school. This is Macbeth stripped to its raw essence: stark, brutal, and uncomfortably human. And that discomfort? It’s the point.
Ambition, Sin, and a Heavy Crown
Let’s not pretend this is just a story about power. It’s about the ugly things that sprout when you water ambition with selfishness. Coen doesn’t simply adapt Shakespeare; he sharpens the tragedy’s moral edges, carving out a story that feels almost biblical in its intensity. If you’ve read the Book of James, you might remember this: “When desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.” It’s as though that verse whispered its way into every frame of the film.
Denzel Washington’s Macbeth is fascinating—less a figure of grandeur and more a man who stumbles into his own destruction. He starts with that quiet hunger, the kind that doesn’t look dangerous at first. But when he tastes power, you can almost see his soul fracturing. It’s not a loud performance, and that’s why it works. Washington carries the weight of his choices with every look, every pause, every half-smile that twists into something darker.
And then there’s Lady Macbeth. Frances McDormand brings a terrifying calm to her unraveling. Her ambition is sharper, clearer, at first. But when the blood won’t wash off—literally or metaphorically—she crumbles. Watching her descent is like seeing a strong tree rot from the inside out.
A Visual Feast of Darkness
The visuals. Oh, the visuals. This isn’t just a black-and-white movie; it’s a world of shadow and light that feels alive, almost malevolent. Every frame seems carved out of nightmares, with long shadows stretching like claws and mist that swallows everything in its path. It’s not just pretty—it’s oppressive.
There’s one scene that sticks in my mind: Birnam Wood advancing on Dunsinane. Shakespeare’s metaphor becomes a haunting visual as soldiers, carrying branches, become a river of trees flowing toward the castle. It’s not just clever; it’s otherworldly. It feels like divine justice creeping in, slow but unstoppable.
The sets are sparse, almost claustrophobic. They trap the characters in a world where escape isn’t an option. Even the wide shots feel tight, as though the air has been sucked out of the room. It’s a stark reminder that once sin takes hold, it doesn’t let go.
Shakespeare for Today’s World
Let’s talk about relevance. How does a 400-year-old play resonate in 2024? Surprisingly well, actually. Ambition, greed, moral compromise—these aren’t just Shakespearean themes. They’re human ones. And if we’re honest, they’re as modern as ever. Watching Macbeth’s slow descent feels uncomfortably close to some of the headlines we scroll past every day.
Coen doesn’t beat you over the head with it, but the parallels are there. We live in a world where power is chased at any cost, where moral lines blur in the name of ambition. The film taps into that undercurrent, making it feel less like a history lesson and more like a mirror.
Faith in the Shadows
Here’s where things get tricky for a Christian audience. The Tragedy of Macbeth isn’t an uplifting story. It doesn’t end with redemption or hope. It’s a tragedy, pure and simple. But does that make it less meaningful? I don’t think so.
If anything, the lack of resolution forces you to wrestle with the weight of sin. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth don’t just make mistakes—they choose paths they know are wrong, and they pay for it. There’s no escaping the consequences. It’s a stark reminder of Galatians 6:7: “Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.”
But here’s the thing: the film leaves space for reflection. It doesn’t spoon-feed you answers or tie everything up neatly. Instead, it challenges you to think about your own choices, your own ambitions, your own moral boundaries. And isn’t that what good art should do?
The Weight of Despair
One of the film’s most striking aspects is how it handles despair. You see it in every character, but especially in Macbeth. His guilt isn’t just a plot point; it’s a living thing, gnawing at him until there’s nothing left. And while the film doesn’t explicitly point to faith as a solution, it’s hard not to think about the alternative.
What if Macbeth had sought forgiveness instead of doubling down on his sin? What if Lady Macbeth had turned to grace instead of spiraling into madness? The story’s power lies in what it doesn’t show—the path not taken, the redemption that could have been.
Who Is This For?
This isn’t a popcorn movie. It’s not something you watch on a lazy Friday night. It demands your attention, your patience, your willingness to sit with discomfort. For Christians, it’s not an easy watch. There’s no uplifting message, no redemption arc, no light at the end of the tunnel.
But maybe that’s the point. Life isn’t always tidy. Choices have consequences, and sometimes those consequences are devastating. The Tragedy of Macbeth doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does offer a chance to wrestle with big questions. And that’s worth something.
Final Thoughts: A Sobering Masterpiece
Is it a perfect film? No. The pacing might feel too brisk for some, and the unrelenting bleakness can be a lot to take in. But as a piece of art, it’s stunning. It captures the weight of sin and the cost of moral compromise in a way that feels both timeless and painfully relevant.
For Christians, it’s a reminder of the darkness we’re capable of and the grace we so desperately need. It’s not a film that leaves you feeling good, but it’s one that leaves you thinking. And maybe that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do.
Rating: 8/10
A haunting, thought-provoking masterpiece that challenges its audience without holding their hand. Proceed with caution—and an open heart.
