Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 2

Reading Frederick Douglass Together

Image courtesy of Mass Humanities

Last Sunday afternoon I attended a reading of Frederick Douglass’ epic speech, “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July.”

“This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day?”

Frederick Douglass gave his oration at Corinthian Hall in Rochester, New York on July 5, 1852, upon the invitation of the Rochester Ladies Anti-Slavery Society; 76 years after the United States declared its independence, eight years before the outbreak of the Civil War, and two years after Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act. For those of us with creaky history, the Fugitive Slave Act enabled slaves who had escaped north of the Mason-Dixon line to be apprehended and returned to slavery in the South. Details of this, our nation’s first law that cast the shadow of slavery over the entire country, include the fact that testimony of two people could send a Black person south to slavery, while the accused person was not allowed to testify. Meanwhile, Judges who ruled for the Black person received five dollars for their effort; ten dollars if they determined in favor of slavery.

“There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.”

Frederick Douglass’ speech is a glorifying salute to our nation’s noble intent, and a chilling recitation of how far we have still yet to come 173 years on. Though it’s true that slavery is illegal, (at the cost of 600,000 American Civil War deaths), we are still a nation mired in the paradox of proclaiming equality while practicing discrimination at an institutional scale. His words speak directly to our here and now.

“{We have created] a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves.”

The event was held under a big tent on the front lawn of the First Baptist Church in Jamaica Plain. My friend Jackie Scott offered the introduction and was the first of nine readers, each of whom read an abridged version of the speech (which still ran to forty minutes). Ah, the attention span of nineteenth century audiences! The event was offered by Mass Humanities, which is sponsoring over fifty readings of this disquieting yet inspiring speech throughout the Commonwealth this summer. Although there is value in reading these important words, there’s magic in sitting still and hearing them delivered with the conviction initially intended. Find a reading near you and go hear the words of a great man who wanted nothing more for himself and his people than all of us want for our own.

Babygirl: Same Old Same Old, Just a Different Sex

WARNING: This blog posts includes spoiler alerts about the 2024 film, Babygirl plus comments about sexuality that some may find inappropriate in a general interest blog. That being said, I’m confident that everyone will keep reading…

Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson in Babygirl. Photo courtesy of Hollywood Reporter.

I hold two related truths. First, that it is high time for white guys to stop running the world. Second, that whoever takes over won’t do any better job than we have. Why? Because regardless of race, gender, or creed: power corrupts.

The first of my twin truths is unpopular among white guys. The second is unpopular among everyone else because, well, when their turn comes everyone else thinks they’ll do a better job.

One of the most convincing explorations of my truth pair is the 2024 erotic thriller, Babygirl, written, directed, and produced by Halina Reijn and starring the amazing Nicole Kidman. It’s easy to frame this picture as a tale of female empowerment. Kidman plays Romy Mathis, a self-made tech CEO who mimes the language of collaboration and corporate compassion while remaining utterly, excruciatingly in control. Romy has everything she could want: money, status, two affecting daughters, and a devoted husband who plays second fiddle to her career yet, after nineteen years of marriage, stills wants to make love to her every night. And… he looks like Antonio Banderas to boot. Not too shabby. Still, our heroine wants more, even if she’s unaware what that might be, until a brazen intern, Samuel, intuits her submissive side and introduces the thrill of yielding control.

As a man who knows a thing or two about the gratification of submission, I can attest that the first 110 minutes of Babygirl are pitch perfect. Harris Dickenson’s Samuel is not obviously dominant. Rather, he’s keen to the clues Romy scarcely knows she’s transmitting. He nourishes a morsel of her sexual hunger, then withholds. Thus increasing her hunger. As the stakes of their verboten liaison rise, his power over her is no longer merely symbolic. In our Harvey Weinstein world, this young man could take his boss down. But of course he doesn’t because, his power over her is only as strong as he power she holds in the rest of her life. Among the sexual dominance films of our era, 9-1/2 Weeks; Secretary; Babygirl gets dominance right.

One hallmark of a great movie is realizing several possible, satisfying endings, and rooting for one that is both unexpected yet logical. An hour into Babygirl, intriguing endings unspool. Will Romy get the same pass that male CEO’s traditionally enjoy? Will Samuel proclaim #MeToo? Will Romy’s family life shatter while she maintains the veneer of corporate success? Will her deeper understanding of the nature of power and submission actually make her a compassionate person?

There’s one truly moral character in the film, Romy’s capable, long suffering assistant Esme. Esme figures out what’s going on, though her reaction is one of grief. “I genuinely believed that women with power would behave differently.” Poor naïve girl. Esme is fated to a life of moral comfort without great material success.

The good news is that Babygirl doesn’t end in any of the ways I anticipated. (I hate it when I actually figure that out). The bad news is: the ending is absolutely terrible. Romy gets away with her dalliance, even her husband forgives her; proving that people in power get away with shit, regardless their sex.

Samuel moves on, proving that men get second chances that women often don’t (i.e. Monica Lewinsky). Esme never gets her promotion, proving that nice guys, of any sex or race, are chumps who finish last. But the absolute worst thing about the ending is final scene, where Antonio Banderas, in yet another attempt to satisfy his eternally hungry wife, goes through a set of sexually domineering motions.

I know, I know, the movie is a female fantasy about having so much power and control that Romy can explore the widest possible range of expression by submitting to others. But after spending an entire film illustrating how deeply Halina Reijn understands dominant/submissive relations, she wipes it all away with the illusion that Romy’s dutiful husband can be taught how to go through motions that simulate domination. Not for a moment would play-acting dominance satisfy a truly submissive person. Domination is a game of the mind, not a maneuver of the fingers. It’s impossible for Romy, or anyone with an accommodating husband of nineteen years, to suddenly be dominated by him in the comfort of the marital bedroom. It simply doesn’t work that way.

And so, in the end, Babygirl fails. On the promise of exploring a sexual underside that is completely different from a person’s surface. On the pretense that if the world were run by anyone other than white men, things would be any different.

Wrap Up the Theater Season with a Bang!

Boston New Works Festival

Moonbox Productions

Calderwood Pavilion and Boston Center for the Arts

June 26-29, 2025

Boston is coming off a terrific 2024-2025 season that featured many excellent productions and expanding audiences. For local theater cognoscenti, there’s a great way to celebrate those successes, and look forward to new delights. Attend Moonbox’s 4th Annual New Works Festival!

Since New Works’ inception, I’ve spent the last weekend in June to hanging out around the Calderwood and BCA, where Moonbox commandeers all the performance spaces for a rotating performance schedule. This year, they will produce four staged readings and three full productions, all new works, all with a local hook.

The New Play Festival is a great opportunity for our theater community. Last year, over 100 actors, directors, and technicians got paid to lend their hand to this collaboration.

But it’s an even better deal for theater-goers.

If you’ve never been to a staged reading, it’s a memorable experience. Engaging theater relies on the audience’s imagination to embellish what’s merely implied on stage. In a reading, that faculty is amplified. When we sit among a group of actors in a semi-circle with ‘only’ scripts on music stands, our minds fill in the rest. The magic of a reading is, with a strong script and sharp actors, the compelling scenes we create in our minds.

The full productions at New Works are just that – completely staged plays with costumes, lights, sets, music, and often wonderful acting. I marvel at how polished they are for a mere four performances.

The festival is Moonbox’s generous gift to our theater community. Ticket prices are modest: $20 per reading, $25 per full performance, and there’s also a pay-what-you-can option for people of limited means. Of course, the invaluable benefit of assembling so many plays in one area at one time is the energy that flows among and between performances. Plan to spend entire day—even two—and between curtain times, chat up folks who make these shows real.

I hope to see many of you there!

The Juke from New Works 2. Photo Courtesy of Moonbox Productions

Selected playwrights and plays for the 2025 Boston New Works Festival include:

Main Stage Plays

Luna Abréu-Santana – Fan Girl – Directed by Alexis Elisa Macedo

Roberts Studio Theatre

Friday, June 27th – 8pm

Saturday, June 28th – 3pm & 8pm

Sunday, June 29th – 3pm

Jackie Gonzalez is obsessed with Star Thieves, a hit musical TV show about the trials and tribulations of band life. While considered a “loser” at school, Jackie is lovingly embraced by her online fandom community: the “Thieves.” In an attempt to publicly humiliate Jackie, high school bully, Quinn, devises a catfishing scheme where she poses as “Willow,” a new stan on the block. As Quinn becomes emotionally invested in the fictional world of Star  Thieves, Willow and Jackie’s relationship progresses and they plan to meet at the fandom event of the year: Comic Con. What will happen when Jackie realizes that her online bestie is actually the bully from her everyday life?

Rachel Greene – Guts – Directed by Shalee Cole Mauleon

Black Box Theatre

Thursday, June 26th – 7:30pm

Saturday, June 28th – 3pm & 8pm

Sunday, June 29th – 2pm

The hit reality weight-loss competition show GUTS is back with its BIGGEST! SEASON! EVER! There will be grueling challenges, verbal abuses, and – of course – the fan-favorite weekly weigh-ins. But behind the camera rivalries are forming, romances are blossoming, and friendships are being found in the most unlikely of places. Can these six contestants find self-love, communal healing, and liberation in a place designed to make them hate themselves and their bodies? Do they have the guts?

Patrick Gabridge – Mox Nox – Directed by Alexandra Smith

The Plaza Theatre

Thursday, June 26th – 7:30pm

Saturday, June 28th – 2pm & 6pm

Sunday, June 29th – 5pm

In a world of rising water, two sisters reunite at their family home. Mira, the caretaker sister, had to weather her mother’s death alone, and holds every childhood slight so close that she is literally burning from the inside out. Sister Deedee has returned to bring her fiancé, Pike, to higher ground, even as her memory vanishes. A play of lyrical magic and visual surprise, with characters who desperately need love and dry land. 

READINGS

Catherine Giorgetti – Choose & Celebrate – Directed by Devon Whitney

Martin Hall

Thursday, June 26th – 8pm

Saturday, June 28th – 4pm

Sunday, June 29th – 5pm

In 1973 Boston, Teresa grapples with the realities of gay life: how to support her best friends Eric and Christopher in their union ceremony, how to deal with a homophobic straight friend who doesn’t understand her, and what to do when violence permeates her community. Inspired by stories from Gay Community News and the real queer people who lived in 1973 Boston.

Micah Pflaum – Creature Feature – Directed by Hazel J. Peters

Deane Hall

Friday, June 27th – 7pm

Saturday, June 28th – 5:30pm

Sunday, June 29th – 6pm

Creature Feature is a deconstruction of John Milton’s court masque “A Masque Performed at Ludlow Castle,” (commonly known as “Comus.”).  The Shepherds of the Citadel warn their charges never to venture into the nearby woods. They tell the story of a sorcerer who dwells there, corrupting travelers into monsters. But for an acolyte hiding his own transformation, braving those woods could be his path to answers. He discovers a realm of wild magic and revelry, but when his faithful friends pursue him into apparent danger, he must confront his fear that he will bring disaster to all he loves.

James McLindon – Hitch – Directed by Donovan Holt

Martin Hall

Friday, June 27th – 8pm

Saturday, June 28th – 7:30pm

Sunday, June 29th – 2pm

Lane, a 36-year-old white man, picks up a young biracial hitchhiker in upstate New York on a summer’s morning. Dee is wary, thinking he’s hoping for a casual hook-up, but she also desperately needs a ride; he says he stopped because she looks scared, an impression that is soon borne out. As they drive on, the lies they tell each other about who they are, where they’ve been and where they’re going, slowly begin to unravel as they learn from each other about missing fathers and missing daughters and families. In the end, both realize they need to face their demons … and decide whether to turn back or keep going.

Mireya Sánchez-Maes – How to Kill a Goat – Directed by Daniela Luz Sánchez

Deane Hall

Saturday, June 28th – 2pm & 8pm

Sunday, June 29th – 3pm

“The best way to get to know New Mexico is through its music!” In How to Kill a Goat, Mariana takes the audience on a wild ride through her life as a bilingual Chicana in the borderlands. Packed with humor, music, and vivid characters, Mariana shares stories of slaughtering goats, fitting bras, falling in love, and facing loss. With each vignette, the play asks: Why do we tell stories? And how do we keep our culture alive? 

Three Axioms to Live By

Ever since we elected a President whose governing ethos is creating chaos and deflecting responsibility, a persistent uneasiness has settled among many in our land. When I find myself unmoored by the weird world we’ve created, I conjure the three axions that guide my life to provide guidance and ballast. Perhaps they will offer some solace to others who feel adrift.

The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

There’s ample evidence that, if we take a very, very long view, Martin Luther King Jr.’s vision is true. Compared to ancient ancestors, humans today are less violent and more tolerant. More people lead healthy, equitable lives than ever in recorded history. It’s nice to believe that human progress always moves forward. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Time and again, the steady crawl toward equity and justice is halted, even reversed.

Kinks in the moral arc are almost always attributable to rises in religious fervor and subsequent stifling of education and reason. Back in the 1950’s Afghanistan was comparable to other Middle Eastern nations in its parallel increase in secular freedoms and living standards. Today, it is the poorest nation in Asia, thanks to the Taliban’s cultural clamp. Similarly, the social liberality that the US exhibited from the end of World War II through the 1970’s led to unprecedented civil advances, which are being chiseled away in large part due to repressive doctrines. Still, as anyone with a Charlie Horse can attest, one can also massage away a kink. Simply apply firm and consistent pressure against the knot. We are living in a kink in the arc of justice, but if we stay true to our purpose, we can smooth it out in time.

Be the Change You Want to See

Ghandi’s message is the one that guides my daily life. It’s why I ride a bicycle and take the T; why I work with prisoners and immigrants; why I rachet down the thermostat and put on a sweater; why I’m civically engaged; why I don’t buy meat; why I give money away; why I hang my laundry on the line to dry. At the same time I live mighty comfortably. I don’t live off-grid or prep for some disaster-envisioned future. The change I want to see is a world where everyone is comfortable, yet responsible; sustainable, yet connected in society.

I don’t for a moment believe that my actions influence anyone else’s. One of my housemates cranks up his furnace; the other cooks lots of meat; my children each drive gas-powered trucks. They see how I live, and it doesn’t affect their behavior. I can’t let it bother me. At the end of the day, or the end of my life, I believe the ease with which I leave this world will be directly related to the ease in which I lived in it. I plan to go out calm.

Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway

Susan Jeffers pop-psych book title may not seem appropriate company for the lofty axioms quoted above, but in any given moment, it’s my go-to motto. Fear is a great motivator, but also a great inhibitor. It’s a convenient way for the powers-that-be to immobilize us. I am riddled with fears. (Anyone living in 21st century America who isn’t, is simply not paying attention.) But I refuse to let my fears paralyze me. I am not foolhardy when I cycle through unknown streets or take on fresh projects or embark on new protests. I remain aware of my surroundings and vulnerability. But I don’t let my fears hold me back.

To feel the fear and do it anyway is to be aware, yet courageous still. It empowers me to move beyond comfort. To act in ways I know are right.

Lyric Stage Does It…Again!

Hello, Dolly!

Lyric Stage Boston

May 16-June 22, 2025

Aimee Doherty and the cast of Hello, Dolly! All photos by Mark S. Howard

I have been attending Lyric Stage for over thirty years and am still confounded—amazed!—at the blockbusters they produce on their intimate thrust stage. Lyric always ends the season with a major musical, but when I saw that they were producing Hello, Dolly! this year I thought: no way. Like so many gay men of my age, I’ve seen plenty of Dolly Levi’s, including the indomitable Bette Midler on Broadway in 2017. Bette is the Dolly for our times, and I wasn’t keen to see a minor imitation.

Happily, I was wrong, wrong, wrong. The Lyric’s Hello, Dolly! is among the best Dolly’s ever produced, in large part because, once again, they turned the challenges of their quirky space into assets. The cast is everywhere, and we are right along with them, rooting for every illogical love pairing in this truly wonderful show.

The ridiculous plot of Hello, Dolly! is integral to the show’s wonder. Except for a brief denouement, the entire play takes place in one glorious day, starting in the hinterlands of 1900’s Yonkers and working our way downtown to Harmonia Gardens, the most exclusive (and expensive) entertainment emporium in New York. Along the way Chief Hay & Feed Clerk Cornelius Hackl falls in love with milliner Irene Malloy, Assistant Barnaby Tucker swoons over shopgirl Minnie Fay, niece Ermengarde shrieks for artist Ambrose, while head honcho Horace Vandergelder, half-a-millionaire owner of Hay & Feed, has hired matchmaker and general meddler Dolly Levi to find him a second wife. Dolly has set her own sights on Horace, and following a series of hysterical mismatches, reels him in for herself.

At the Lyric, which hasn’t got the space to play these antics out on discrete sets, one half of the audience sits beneath the YONKERS train station sign, the other half, GRAND CENTRAL. The action unfurls upon a huge map of Gilded Age New York. It’s simple. It’s genius.

There are certain requirements for an actor to play Dolly Levi. She must be charming, funny, and a good belter. She must also have snap comic timing. Beyond that, there’s limited room for stamping the part your own, Carol Channing was daffy, Barbara Streisand busy-bodied, Bette Midler simply outrageous. Aimee Doherty, the reigning queen of Boston’s local theater community, brings an intuitive warmth to the role that I’ve never seen. Her audience repartee brings us all under her spell.

Aimee Doherty and cast

Besides having a knock-out Dolly (and a curmudgeonly Horace) a great production of Hello, Dolly! requires two other essentials: a satisfying Cornelius/Irene/Barnaby/Minnie quartet and a waitstaff full of great male dancers. Again, the Lyric delivers.

I’ve always found the subplot among the clerks and hatmakers more charming than the main Dolly/Horace event. I love the backstory’s ballads (“Ribbons Down My Back,” “Elegance,” “It Only Takes a Moment”). Michael Jennings Mahoney (Cornelius) and Kristian Espiritu (Irene) make an unexpectedly lovely couple, whose voices align in an atypical yet lavish way.

As for dancers, the troupe is fantastic. Local choreographer Ilyse Robbins creates her best work ever: jaw-dropping moves on the tiny stage. Jackson Jirard and Sean Keim, barely five feet tall each, are phenomenon of whirling, spinning, head-over-heals motion. The second act scene of dancing waiters is one of the most famous in musical theater. The audience expects certain stances, certain sequences that we relish from Dollys’ past. Choreographer Robbins delivers them all, yet manages to add her own flourishes, making the scene simultaneously familiar and fresh.

Director Maurice Emmanuel Parent deserves a special shout-out. Mr. Parent is an actor, playwright, director, teacher, and co-founder of the Front Porch Arts Collaborative, a Black theater company that works with many area theaters to produce plays that highlight Black experience. He is a Herculean talent and a great asset to our community. What’s so welcome, to me, in his direction of Hello, Dolly! is the broad vision he brings to a play that’s unburdened by labels of ‘Black,’ ‘underrepresented,’ ‘gay,’ or whatever. If we’re going to successfully navigate to a post-DEI world, it’s imperative that talents like Maurice Emmanuel are not pigeon-holed into plays that bear labels. And his gift to us is a Dolly for everyone. Horace is played by a Black man; Barnaby is Asian; Irene Philipinx; one of the dancing couples is gay. Not one of the casting or directorial decisions feels forced, each only elevates the spirit of the show. Kudos to the Lyric for hiring Mr. Parent. Kudos to Mr. Parent for making all the right moves with such a light and facile hand.

The Lyric’s Hello, Dolly! is a terrific finale to a great theater season. Go see it!

Aimee Doherty and cast

Yo! People! Get Your Affairs in Order!

All photos of Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, MA. Courtesy of their website.

Memorial Day is upon us. The day in which we honor the dead. This year, I suggest that you honor death—your own—in a way that will benefit the living. Make a will. Create an estate plan. So when it’s your time to go, it’s easier on everyone who remains behind.

Last month, a guy I know died. From cancer. Age 63. An acquaintance more than a friend. A nice guy. A tragedy, really, taken so soon. Let’s call him John.

John has a son in his twenties who’s still finding his way, a couple of siblings, a few close friends. A house, a car. The usual stuff of a life comfortably lived.

Talk turned pretty quick, as it does, to distributing John’s stuff to those who remain. There was talk of a trust for his son that his sister would administer until the kid was more mature. Plus instructions on how to distribute what value John had collected.

Until that talk proved false. There is no trust. There is no will. The estate will go to probate. It will be months, years, before things are sorted out. In the meantime, a property sits in limbo and a young man, already vulnerable, is unmoored.

I was sorry to hear that John died. I thought highly of him, though I didn’t know him well. But when I learned that he’d died without an estate plan, a flash of anger pulsed through me. That he left such a mess when he left this world. Someone closer to John said to me, “Yes, but he died so young, so quickly.” Come on. He’d had cancer for 18 months. He knew it was serious. He knew he had a vulnerable son. Leaving his son unprovided is simply negligent.

Why are we humans so blind to the reality of our own death? What hubris induces us to leave our affairs tangled for those we leave behind? We are all going to die. And the best way to respect the ones we leave behind is to make the task of clean-up easy as possible.

Every adult needs a will. Folks with children and ‘stuff’ may need a more elaborate estate plan. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to cost a lot of money. NOLO Press offers a range of publications about how to draft your own estate plan. The books cost less than 40 bucks. In my thirties, when my children were born and accidental death was my most likely way to go, I made a simple NOLO will, and felt confident that if I died, things would transfer smoothly. If you prefer to work online, Quicken Willmaker and Trust is another, slightly pricier option. Of course, if either book or online break your budget, just check the NOLO series from your local library. Save money! Save paper! Hooray for you!

If you’ve arrived at retirement age and your assets have grown and your preferences refined, you might want to do something more comprehensive than a templated will or trust. Five years ago I hired an excellent attorney to create a comprehensive estate plan that describes what happens when I get ill, and where my stuff goes, including my remains. Health proxies, financial executor, charitable distributions; it’s all spelled out in binders gathering dust in my kid’s bookcases. All so that when I go, they won’t have to figure anything out. The total cost of my estate plan was $2500. Short money for peace of mind.

To be sure, it’s equal hubris to think that when I finally die, I’ll have attended to everything pressing at the moment I go. Surely, my executors will face a few hiccups I did not anticipate. But I’m glad they won’t have to go to probate, and confident that the mess I leave will by tidy.

I imagine that John would have wanted the same, but like so many of us, he “never got around to it.” Now his son and his executors will have a long, likely painful process to get what John could have so easily assigned.

Don’t leave the same mess. Make your estate plan. Now. For Memorial Day.

Lush Love

The Light in the Piazza

The Huntington

May 9 – June 15, 2025

Cast of Light in the Piazza. All photos by Julieta Cervantes.

If you missed a decadent Valentine’s treat or the dreamy drizzle of April in Paris, and are in need of romantic fix, may I suggest a trip to Florence, courtesy of The Huntington’s gorgeous production of The Light in the Piazza.

Elizabeth Spencer’s 1960 novella is a conventional tale of boy meets girl, laced with cross cultural humor Italy versus the US circa 1956, plus the sweet confusions of not knowing each other’s language. Oh, and did I mention that the girl is “special?” The euphemism of choice in that era for developmentally disabled. In this case, arrested intellectual and emotional development incurred by an accident when Clara was twelve. I have no idea whether getting kicked in the head by a pony at your birthday party can actually trigger such damage, but it makes for great romantic fodder because Clara is beautiful and sweet, and oh, so very innocent.

In the early 21st century, non-plussed by the reality-based fare populating Broadway stages, composer Adam Guettel set out to write something richly romantic. He succeeded. The score of The Light in the Piazza is sweeping, operatic in scale and entirely over-the-top. It perfectly matches the completely unbelievable, yet enchanting story. It’s a fable, a myth, a wishful dream that takes us out of our everyday lives and places us, gently, on clouds of desire fulfilled.

Sarah-Anne Martinez and Emily Skinner

Clara and her mother Margaret are visiting Florence, a replay of the honeymoon trip Margaret took with her newlywed husband well before the war. If you’re wondering why it makes sense to bring her daughter on his memory trip instead of her husband, you’re not giving over to the romantic fantasy. Suspend all rational thoughts and—trust me—you will fall under the Piazza’s thrall. Fabrizio, son of a local haberdasher, sees Clara and falls instantly in love. Ditto Clara. Most of the first act is spent with long suffering Margaret trying to explain to Fabrizio, his father, his mother, his brother, anyone who will listen, why Clara is not a viable love object. No one else sees a damaged girl. They see only charm and beauty.

In Act Two, Margaret yields to this rush-on romance, and though there are numerous obstacles along the way, it’s hardly a spoiler to say that all ends well for lovers in Italy. Because, let’s face it, no one goes to see The Light in the Piazza for the plot. We go for the elegant sets, the shifting light, the soaring music and the complicated lyrics that pour over us like Tuscan wine. By these criteria, The Huntington delivers. The basic set is simple, but the floating columns, the parting screens, the Roman arches, the projected masterpieces, and the smooth sliding furnishings are so finely choreographed that scenes simply melt into one another. The lighting is both dappled and shimmering throughout. The entire evening is simply stunning.

The cast is uniformly good, with solid Broadway voices adept at handling the challenging music. Among all, Joshua Grosso as Fabrizio stands out. His voice—less belt, more lyrical—is amazing. He transitions into high register with languid smoothness. One of the most affecting singers I’ve heard in years.

Joshua Grosso and Sarah-Anne Martinez

The Light in the Piazza, so consciously romantic, was conceived as a throwback musical. To fully enjoy it, we must relinquish our 21st century penchant for speed and diversion. Single actors stand center stage and sing soaring arias. Without interruption or business. The leisurely pace is the point.

As I sat, my heart blooming with romantic possibility and my blood pressure calming, I marveled at this lovely production. Compared with any travelling Broadway show, so mechanically produced that they lose their soul, this home-grown production is so much more satisfying. The Huntington’s Piazza offers every bell and whistle that the Great White Way has to offer, plus the vitality of something that’s still fresh and new. An evening of escape to Tuscan spring. A glorious production.

Cybertruck 2: Lipstick on a Pig

When it comes to getting down on Elon Musk, I was ahead of the curve. Back in October, before Trump’s second election, before DOGE, below Elon let his four-year-old son prance around the oval office, I decried the Cybertrucks that littered my neighborhood. Armored vehicles have no place in a society that proclaims to be civilized.

Now, of course, the whole world is recoiling from Elon’s shenanigans, and Tesla owners of all stripes are embarrassed by their contributions to this man’s bloated profits. Some sport bumper stickers asserting, “I Bought this Tesla before Elon Went Nuts,” as if petitioning for absolution. Some protest at Tesla dealerships, which our current administration considers a treasonous crime unlike, say, storming the Capitol. But this week I saw a new twist on Tesla owners trying to distance themselves from gravity of their purchase.

There’s a new angular monstrosity in my neighborhood, which its owner has camouflaged in a new way. They covered it with stick-on daisies. Yes, they put $3.99 daisy stickers all over their $80k+ truck. We’re talking serious lipstick on a pig. I have to give them kudos for making a ludicrous vehicle look even more ridiculous.

But I can already see, when the lipstick wears off, and the stickers peel away from the Cybertruck’s notoriously precious body, the shadows that will remain where flowers once clung. Which begs the question Pete Seeger asked seventy years ago:

Where have all the flowers gone?

Gone to Cybertrucks every one.

When will we ever learn?

When will we ever learn?

Cambridge Under Construction

I walked to the gym the other day, a pleasant walk of 1-1/2 miles or so along residential streets. I counted eleven houses under renovation. Not just homeowners getting a new furnace, landscaping, or applying coat of paint. Major renovations, many of them gut jobs. This phenomenal amount of construction activity speaks of the spring weather. But also, in this time of economic uncertainty and looming recession, to the peculiar and fortunate nature of Cambridge.

A hundred years ago, Cambridge was another Massachusetts industrial town. The home base of Lever Brothers soap and lots of candy manufacturers. Squirrel Brand. Necco wafers. Haviland thin mints. Cambridge whipped up all sorts of sweets. Sure, Harvard was always here and MIT arrived in 1916, so there was the pointy-headed element. But working-class folks far outnumbered academics.

World War II came and went. MIT became a scientific juggernaut. Harvard became the pinnacle of collegiate cache. But Cambridge itself remained doughty. American culture was enamoured by the suburban shift out of the gritty city, and the disincentives of rent control kept housing stock border-line dilapidated. In the 1960’s, an intrepid urbanite could pick up a 2- or 3-family house in Cambridge for ten grand. Maybe less.

In the 1990’s, rent control got the boot, city living became cool again, and housing prices started to climb. Fast. That acceleration continues, independent of dot.com bust, Great Recession, or Trumpian panic. So many more people want to live in Cambridge than our seven-square miles can contain. Especially since Harvard and MIT—the reason so many folks want to live here—own 20% of the city.

Today, just under 120,000 people live in Cambridge’s 60,000 residential units. 8,600 of them are permanently affordable in some way. The rest is very pricey real estate. Which is both a point of pride and an issue of concern.

No matter how one defines, “progressive” Cambridge covets the title. The city fancies itself having an outsize influence on the rest of the world. Therefore, it’s all well and good that Cambridge is such a great place to life that people are willing to pay up to $1000 per square foot to own a piece of it. But it’s embarrassing that Cambridge has become a poster child for how real estate prices highlight society’s inequalities. Aside from the 8,600 low- and moderate-income families who live in the city, and a smattering of old timers who hand their houses down to their kids, the rest of us are basically rich. House rich, at the very least.

Last month the Cambridge City Council adopted the most “progressive” zoning in the US. I set off the term in quotes because a hundred years ago, when zoning was implemented throughout much of the US, so-called progressive zoning partitioned our cities into discrete areas of density and function, whereas today, progressive zoning means just the opposite. Cambridge got rid of one- two- and three- family zoning designations and allows, by right, anyone to build up to a four-story residential building (six stories if the lot is over 5000 square feet and the units are 100% affordable.) There are some set-back and open space parameters, but no parking requirements. In theory, this will stimulate residential development, supply will increase, maybe even prices will float down. In fact, the new zoning will create at least some more affordable housing (there’s a 20% affordable requirement for any projects over 10 units) and likely a lot more private housing. I’m in favor this change because, as a city blessed with excellent infrastructure and oodles of jobs, making Cambridge denser, more pedestrian, is the sustainable thing to do.

Today, I walk along our city streets and see lots of money poured into top tier residences. The question remains: what kind of construction will we see two years from now? Will the new zoning code create enough incentive to alter the exclusive nature of Cambridge’s private housing stock, or will we just continue to get more high-end projects? Will incentives be enough for builders to tear down our traditional 2- and 3- family houses and replace them with small apartment buildings? Will developers aggregate lots and build even larger buildings? We don’t know.

One thing that I know for sure. Zoning notwithstanding, there will still be lots of construction in Cambridge. The place is too desirable to stand still.

Movin’ On Up with the American Dream

Yoni Appelbaum’s cover story, “Stuck in Place,” in the March 2025 issue of The Atlantic offers a unique thesis as to the fundamental rumblings of our national discontent. That we used to be a society on the move. And now we are not. And that is a problem.

Mr. Appelbaum takes the long view on relocation, all the way back to the one of our guiding national principles: that people came to the United States to escape the rigid hierarchy of wherever they came from, and part of that hierarchy was physical entrapment within the confines of a parochial village. The author describes with glee the nineteenth century American tradition of Moving Day, an unofficial holiday whose date varied by locale, when up to one in five people in any given metropolis switched houses. Most people were renters, who, according to Appelbaum, treated their domiciles then as we treat our cars and cellphones today–consumable items with a constant eye towards an upgrade. He delights in the piles of belongs stacked on streets, profiteering moving men, and the haste required to get out by noon, for there’s a fresh tenant fast on your heels. A giant frenzy of American energy. Personally, I can’t imagine it was all that much fun.

This constant moving was enabled by having a large, relatively affordable, range of housing options in most places were people wanted to live. Another manifestation of resource-generous America. Developers built and the people came. Places got shabby and folks moved on. One striver’s shabby became the incoming immigrant’s dream come true. When a place got entirely too shabby, the owner would tear it down and build anew, usually bigger, taller, denser. Thus our cities grew in a piecemeal fashion.

As did our sense of community. Nineteenth and early 20th century America represented a different kind of community. One based in interest and opportunity rather than heredity. We were a nation where the term ‘stranger’ evolved from someone from beyond, who ought to be feared; to someone new, who is likely interesting.

This idea of constant movement slowed during the 20th century, though it’s spirt remained in our mid-century exodus to the suburbs and our continually creeping West. What brought it to a halt, according to Appelbaum, was Progressives. And the particular example he uses is that heroine of urban salvation: Jane Jacobs.

Before Jane Jacobs wrote her seminal, The Life and Death of Great American Cities, she and her architect husband purchased a townhouse in Manhattan’s West Village, removed the storefront on the first floor, and turned it into a single-family residence. Thus, they both diminished street activity and reduced the number of people living in that space. Nevertheless, they proceeded to make their names championing a kind of dense, pedestrian, street-focused urbanity that their own renovation helped dissipate. They staved off urban renewal and installed zoning, preservation, and other restrictions that discouraged change. They fossilized the neighborhood.

As the “character” of places became important, the affluent enjoyed legal mechanisms to “preserve” their environs. New forms of segregation ensued. Thus today, when less than one in thirteen people move in any given year, we’re an economically stratified nation with woefully inadequate housing stock that continues to reinforce the ‘haves’ and keep out the “have nots.”

According to Appelbaum, we need three million more housing units in our country, and they need to be where people want to live: i.e. big cities. On our current track, we’ll never get there.

I love the idea behind Mr. Appelbaum’s thesis. I appreciate his novel perspective on our national argument with ourselves. I can understand that what he describes is part of our discontent. But I cannot agree it is our foundational problem.

First, we have become a nation of home owners, rather than a nation of renters. This certainly impacts our mobility, and yet I believe most would agree, this is a good thing. Having ‘skin in the game’ makes homeowners less likely to move, and arguably more conservative. We have a stake in preservation over change. I am not convinced that’s all bad.

Second, Mr. Appelbaum doesn’t even give lip service to the ecological implication of adding three million more residences in the United States. In fact, he does not weigh the environmental costs of endless relocation at all. This is surprising to read in The Atlantic, a publication that prides itself on environmental awareness.

Still, the article is valuable and compelling. The pendulum in favor of neighborhood conservation as a euphonism for elitism (i.e. racism) has swung too far. We need more, denser, development in areas where humans have already claimed prominence over nature, and we need to leave areas we have yet to spoil completely alone. Equally important, we need to check our thirst for more space, more privacy. We need to develop new forms of housing, congregate forms, in which we learn how to share both space and resources. Where we build community by living in it.