Ivy Pochoda’s back, and she’s slinging her signature brand of literary chaos, women under pressure who’d rather burn the house down than play nice. This ain’t her first rodeo. Pochoda’s got five novels under her belt, including the LA Times Book Prize-winning Sing Her Down, plus gritty gems like These Women and Wonder Valley. She’s a creative writing prof with a knack for diving deep into the moral muck, often mentoring writers in L.A.’s Skid Row. That’s no shock. Her stories thrive on the fringes, where society’s polite edges fray and the weird shit gets real. Pochoda’s got the range to make you sweat and the nerve to make you love it. In Ecstasy, she’s cranking the dial to 11, tossing a Molotov cocktail of myth, greed, and feral female energy onto a posh Greek resort.

Lena, a former dancer with a body that’s seen better days, her near-blind, foul-mouthed bestie Hedy, polished daughter-in-law Jordan, and corporate sleazeball son Drew haul ass to Naxos for the grand opening of the late patriarch’s Agape Villas. It’s supposed to be a bougie wet dream: marble floors, infinity pools, curated wine lists, and a “shut up and vibe” itinerary. Instead, they get Dionysus crashing the party with a bar tab. On the hotel’s “private” beach, a badass women’s collective led by the magnetic Luz has set up camp and ain’t budging. “We will not be confined to camps… We have a spiritual connection to this beach. So fuck off,” Luz basically says. These women dance, drum, and drag strangers into their orbit, wielding ecstasy like it’s a goddamn constitutional amendment. Meanwhile, Drew’s playing hospitality warlord, muttering “disaster can be useful” like a sociopath with a PowerPoint. The whole mess barrels toward a beachside rite where myth rips the roof off, and the line between freedom and straight-up carnage gets blurry as hell.

Pochoda juggles perspectives like a bartender with a grudge. Lena, Drew, Jordan, Hedy, some “Before” flashbacks, and the trippy-ass voice of “Mama Ghost,” a rave-priestess chorus who purrs, “I am the portal, not the path… I’m there when the hairs rise on your arms and the beat fucks with your chest.” Mama Ghost is the book’s middle finger to normalcy, turning addiction, music, and surrender into a goddamn religion. Pochoda’s structure is tight, with short, punchy chapters that keep the camera swinging, her signature move from past books. Here, she mashes sun-soaked travel porn with underworld menace until you can’t tell if you’re at a resort or a ritual.

Think The Bacchae with a black Amex. Wealth, control, and Instagram-ready branding square off against the raw, chaotic power of the body. Drew’s the kind of prick who thinks order can fix anything, chaos is just a glitch to be steamrolled by security goons and a slick PR campaign. The women on the beach? They’re treating chaos like it’s holy fucking communion. Luz tells the cops to eat sand: “We won’t be leaving… Try, assholes.” That defiance vibes with Mama Ghost’s gospel of choice and seduction: “Pick your god. Pick your demon.”

Motherhood and aging get a raw deal, too. Lena’s body is a battleground. Failed dance career, crumbling marriage, and a Pilates obsession that’s basically duct tape for her soul. When she finally snaps and dives into the ecstasy, it’s messy, public, and gloriously unhinged. She strips naked, reclaims her skin, and struts into the dunes while her son gags and the men look away like cowards. That scene’s not just a flex; it’s the whole point.

Then there’s the book’s big, shiny symbol: a figure who’s basically Dionysus with a glow-up, “superhuman, naked… golden luminescence… Two slits beneath his ribs leak golden blood.” Yeah, the golden blood is a bit on-the-nose, but it works. Gaudy, sexy, and sacred, like a rock star bleeding out at an altar. When characters start licking that shit, the book goes full-tilt mythic, and it’s beautifully batshit.

Pochoda’s prose is sharp as a switchblade, with a nightclub pulse and Greek-sun scorch. Mama Ghost’s sections hit like a second-person fever dream, while Drew’s chapters ooze corporate dickhead energy. “They think that they are dancing but it’s nothing more than violent, spastic lurching,” he sneers, summing up his whole “I manage, therefore I am” vibe. The pacing smolders early, sprints in the middle, and goes full rager by the end. The second act occasionally loops the same beat (Drew tweaking his brand strategy, Lena inching toward the dance floor) but the beach rite climax lands hard, especially when Lena steps into the circle, “and she will never stop dancing… never let anyone trap her again.”

Characters pop off the page. Lena’s brittle but burning, Hedy’s a radiant mess, Jordan thaws from ice queen to wild card, and Drew’s the MBA Minotaur you’ll want to punch in the throat. Luz, with her “arrogant beauty,” is a cult leader you’d follow into a volcano, which is exactly her deal. There is a creeping dread that bites, ecstatic unraveling, tourists turning maenad, and a cave glowing like a blood-soaked shrine. It’s nightmare fuel with a beat you can dance to.

Originality? Remixing The Bacchae ain’t groundbreaking, but planting it in a Naxos resort with a rave-cult twist is fresh as hell. The golden blood’s a tad extra, and Drew’s corporate-villain schtick can feel like low-hanging fruit, but the clash of feral women versus curated paradise is a goddamn thrill ride.

Ecstasy isn’t just a party; it’s a rebellion against systems that cage desire. The beach women are treated like a PR nightmare to be swept under the rug, while the hotel’s a soulless machine pumping out chilled towels and “brand-aligned” serenity. When the music cracks that facade, the real shit surfaces: class warfare, bodily freedom, and who gets to call the shots on “safety.” Drew’s ready to burn the world to keep the brochure pretty. The women, with Mama Ghost whispering, “I’ll take you where you need to go. And then I am gone,” are chasing a rawer truth.

This was solid as hell. It’s a sweaty, wine-drunk romp with killer atmosphere, a badass chorus voice, and a mythic climax that’s gloriously over-the-top. Some symbols are lit up like Vegas signs, and a few beats loop too long, but the body-madness and female fury make this a trip worth taking.

TL;DR: A swanky Greek resort gets hijacked by a Dionysian girl-gang uprising, narrated by a rave-goddess who dares you to lose your shit. It’s The Bacchae with a concierge and a killer playlist. The drums, defiance, and sticky wine stains make it a hell of a ride.