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The lat­est con­script in the cul­ture war against the cur­rent White House in­cum­bent is, won­der­fully, Bar­bra Streisand. Rush­ing over the top with all the fear­less­ness of her 76 years, she has writ­ten a num­ber of re­mark­able med­i­ta­tions on the gam­mon corpse quiv­er­ing in the Oval Of­fice and his de­based ver­sion of the Amer­i­can dream.

Ev­ery inch of Streisand’s ma­jes­tic charisma is sunk into ev­ery syl­la­ble of this richly or­ches­trated come­back set. Oc­ca­sion­ally, the glossy aes­thetic threat­ens to neuter the hor­rors de­picted. Yet Streisand’s pow­er­ful de­liv­ery of sim­ple, pointed lyrics (“Facts are fake and friends are foes / And how the story ends no­body knows”) con­vinces. Most sen­si­bly, the Amer­i­can pres­i­dent’s name is never ut­tered, as if not to fur­ther poi­son the well.

The fi­nale doesn’t work, with a

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