Not Much Fun at Fun Home, But Terrific Theater

Posted on 11/20/2025 by paulefallon

Fun Home

The Huntington

November 14 – December 14, 2025

Music by Jeanine Tesori

Book and Lyrics by Lisa Kron

Directed by Logan Ellis

Lyla Randall as Young Alison and Sarah Bockel as Alison. All photos by Marc J. Franklin

The Huntington’s production of Fun Home hits all the right notes and delivers the emotional wallop this tragicomedy deserves.

Fun Home, winner of five Tony Awards for 2013, is based on the graphic novel by Alison Bechdel. I’m not sure why it’s called a novel when the story so closely resembles her life. In fact, three different actors play a character named Alison Bechdel at three different stages of development, often all three on stage at the same time.

The play starts with forty-something Alison, a lesbian cartoonist, light years away from her rural Pennsylvania roots, trying to make sense, graphically and emotionally, of her deceased father. Deceased is too polite a word. Right off we learn that Bruce Bechdel kills himself when Alison, the oldest of four children, is in college.

Early on, the play is schizophrenic, as befits life in Fun Home. Bruce is a prickly dad; an historic house renovator; a high school English teacher; and owner of Bechdel Funeral Home, from which the play’s abbreviated title is derived. Sometimes Fun Home is actually fun, but most of the time it’s a Victorian monstrosity teetering on edge, as the family tries, always tries (and always fails) to meet the unreasonable expectations of a man whose internal conflictions turn cruel toward those he supposedly loves. Early scenes ricochet between family love and family disasters, with Young Alison and her three childhood siblings singing and dancing and hamming it up in the face of trauma.

Medium Alison goes to college. Discovers she’s gay. Treats the audience to the most hysterical coming out scene ever. Then tells her parents she’s gay. No response. Followed by weird response, as Alison’s mother reveals that Bruce has had male lovers throughout their entire marriage. Even before. When Alison returns home, with girlfriend Joan, she anticipates a warm talk with her dad, now that they share being gay in common. Needless to say, that’s not what happens.

Sushma Saha as Joan and Maya Jacobson as Medium Alison

Enough of the downer plot. Did I mention Fun Home’s a musical? Really, it is. Though, to be honest, the music’s not all that memorable. Wherein lies the strength of The Huntington’s production. The music is there, and the production numbers with the kiddies are welcome palate cleansers, but Huntington’s focus is on the emotional entanglement between father, mother, and daughter. I’ve seen other productions of Fun Home, but none that left me so distraught at play’s end; so in awe of the human capacity to twist and thwart those we love.

The Huntington set is a remarkable collection of moving parts that assemble and dissemble Fun Home and other locales. I couldn’t figure out the point of the bucolic tree background, nor why the band is framed in a floating sky. Odd, but not necessarily bad.

Cast wise, some of the secondary roles deserve more heft. Nevertheless, the three Alison’s carry the show as a perfect trio. Maya Jacobson as Middle Alison is a particular standout. Jennifer Ellis is also noteworthy in maintaining tight composure as the long-suffering wife. She finally gets her own voice in “Days of Days,” which I find the most affecting song in the show.

Jennifer Ellis as Helen Bechdel

As to Nick Duckart as Bruce Bechdel, I must confess that I dislike the father in this play so much, I can’t imagine praising anyone in the role. I know a thing or two about growing up under a volatile father. Also about being drawn to men yet marrying a woman, fathering children, coming out, and raising them. It’s not a clear path, but it can be navigated with dignity for everyone involved. When I watch Bruce pick up his former students, and leave his young children alone at night to prowl, my skin crawls. When I see him throw himself in front of a truck, I feel no empathy. Rather, I see the commitments—wife and children—abandoned by this needling, narcissistic man. When I see Alison, so many years later, still trying to reconcile her relationship with the man, I want to scream, “The asshole isn’t worth the effort.” But then I realize that he’s her father, and don’t each of us try to reconcile the sins and mistakes of our own parents, no matter how dastardly they might have been.

You don’t need to be a gay dad, or even be gay yourself, to savor the rich emotional journey into Fun Home. You just need to get to The Huntington by December 14 and be prepared for a deep dive into perdition and forgiveness.

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Sorry Senator Markey—It’s Time to Go

Posted on 11/11/2025 by paulefallon
Ed Markey’s Official Photo – taken in 2013

Ed Markey’s a great guy. As honest as a politician can be, a faithful public servant, a progressive voice from the bluest state in America. He’s running for reelection to the U.S Senate in 2026, yet it’s time for him to go. Why? Because the guy will be eighty years old next year, and no one that age should be entrusted with a six-year term for any office. Period.

Call me ageist, but I’ll lean into the science on this. There’s a natural arc to the age of man, and to every particular man. We ramp up in intelligence and physical capability, hitting our physical peak around age 28, and our mental peak about the same time.

It’s no secret that most great scientific discoveries are made by younger folk. We are accustomed to seeing Einstein as a wizened old man with a mass of great white hair, but when he published his theory of relativity, at age 26, he had close cropped, dark hair and a neat moustache. Einstein added much to world throughout his life, but his truly bold contribution happened when he was young. Similarly, Louis Pasteur was 35 when he introduced the theory of fermentation, Thomas Edison 32 when he invented the incandescent light bulb, Neils Bohr a mere 28 when he described the components of the atom. Each continued to develop and refine, but their novel thinking happened when they were young.

Politicians are not scientists. Their contributions to the world do not rely on an “Aha!” moment. Their skills are better tuned to the wisdom of age. For some reason, as we have less time on this planet, we tend to become more patient; we gain longer perspective. Those are admirable traits in a politician. Thus we find many effective politicians in their 50’s, 60’s, perhaps even into their 70’s,

Ed Markey in 2025. Courtesy WGBH.

But at some point, the notion that age connotes wisdom runs smack into the reality that age creates senility. I’m a pretty sharp guy. I’ve tackled some challenging puzzles in my day. At age 70, I’m a full decade younger than Senator Markey. Sure, I forget names. But I also get the occasional brain fog, I miss important connections. I don’t have any diagnosed condition: I’m just getting old. I still have good ideas and well-founded opinions, but I know they’re not as sharp as those I held as a younger man. Fortunately, for me and everyone else, I’m aging gracefully out of any leadership role. No one calls on me to make important decisions anymore.

Democrats love to proclaim themselves the party of science. Except, of course, when the science doesn’t fit their point-of-view. There is no doubt that Ed Markey is less sharp than he was ten years ago, even twenty years ago. That’s not prejudice—it’s science. Time for him to retire graciously, bask on his well-earned laurels, and hand the reins of advocating progressive ideals to a younger person.

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Lizard Boy: Speakeasy’s Superpower!

Posted on 11/05/2025 by paulefallon

Lizard Boy

Speakeasy Stage Boston

October 24 – November 22, 2025

Book, Music, and Lyrics by Justin Huertas

Directed by Lyndsay Allyn Cox

Keiji Ishiguri as Lizard Boy. All photos by Benjamin Rose Photography.

Twenty years ago, Mount St. Helens erupted, a dinosaur spewed forth, landed at a nearby playground, was beheaded by EMT’s, and the blood that spewed onto five children gave them various superpowers. All except Trevor, who was doused with the most blood. He simply turned green.

If that premise inspires or delights you, you’re going to love Lizard Boy as much as I do. If the comic book silliness is too much for you, the times are ripe to snuggle up with George Orwell. But…you’ll be missing so much fun.

Trevor (Keiji Ishiguri) is a shut-in, embarrassed by his green skin, except for one night a year, when Monsterfest brings out all sorts, and he can blend into the crowd. He hooks up with Cary (Peter DiMaggio), though it takes the two some time to navigate the minefield of hook-up versus date. Eventually, they go clubbing and hear a singer (Chelsea Nectow), who’s the Siren of Trevor’s bad dreams. The trio are uniformly good. Chelsea is a stand-out. All Joan Jett and Grace Slick, until she releases her Siren scat across the horizon of heaven.

I won’t try to relay any more plot because, frankly, I didn’t understand what was going on much of the time. But really, I didn’t care. Comic books are about color, action, and splash. So too, is Lizard Boy.

Lyndsay Allyn Cox’s direction, energetic to the precipice of frenzy, perfectly suits the tenor of the play. There are only three actors, doubling as the musicians, but they are everywhere, all the time, generating the presence of a complete ensemble. There’s piano and guitar, as in any indie-rock musical, but also ukulele and kazoo and cello. Yes…cello! The percussion is as surprising as it is insistent. The rubber hammer against the steamer trunk is a reliable motif, but when Siren angrily bangs the guitar case on the floor to the beat…I thought it was just hysterical.

The interaction of cast and music and instrument reaches a crescendo in a superbly crafted choreography when the action peaks – just as the world is about to end!!! Holy tambourine, Bat Man! I never crossed such a violent cello!

The cast of Lizard Boy

The mere title, Lizard Boy, conjures memories of Speakeasy triumphs past. The 2003 production of Bat Boy: the Musical, (which this longtime Speakeasy patron considers its finest show ever) had its run extended I can’t recall how many times. The similarities between the two shows go beyond the title word, Boy. Each displays the plight of a human creature augmented by extra-species characteristics. Each title character considers their difference their weakness and futilely strives to fit in, until they realize that their difference is their strength. Or, as Trevor finally sings in comic book lingo, “My difference is my superpower!”

Surprise, surprise, the world doesn’t end. All are saved. Hope blossoms. And you’ve just enjoyed a marvelous ninety-minutes escaping the Orwellian shadows of present times.

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A Heartwarming Story of Hunger and Generosity

Posted on 10/29/2025 by paulefallon

In September, my brother and sister and her husband held a mini-reunion over a nine-day visit to Ireland. I’d been to Ireland before (my daughter and I explored the lesser travelled precincts of Donegal back in 2007), so I knew the joys of visiting the Emerald Isle. The people are so grand!

This trip was different in that it was a guided tour—my first. It could have been titled ‘Ireland 101’ as it hit the usual high points: Dublin; Cork; Killarney; Galway; Blarney Castle; Ring of Kerry; Cliffs of Moher; Jameson; Guinness. Basically, a photo op at every calendar image of Ireland. I had my doubts about being part of a tour bus herd, but the tour proved to be fantastic: excellent food and digs; nice fellow travelers; terrific guides.

Cork City Jail

Constance, our guide in Cork, was particularly engaging. After motoring through the city and making a surprisingly interesting visit to the 19th century city jail (Cork was a rough place back then, and tales of the jail’s inhabitants are remarkable), we headed to neighboring Midleton to see the Jameson Distillery. Just before the highway exit, Constance pointed out an unusual sculpture, barely visible through the trees. We arrived in Midleton with a free hour for lunch, so I decided to hoof it back to that sculpture and savor the endearing backstory Constance had told.

When you visit Philadelphia, you get steeped in the Declaration of Independence. In Cambodia, you must go to the killing fields. In Paris you cannot escape Hausman’s boulevards. In Ireland, you have to confront the Great Hunger. More than a million Irish died in the 1840’s. Even more emigrated. Within a decade the population of Ireland was cut in half, only recently returned to pre-famine numbers. The Great Hunger is a tale of blighted potatoes, English cruelty, and the limits of the land to provide. And though it occurred almost two hundred years ago, it is ever present in the Irish psyche. Famine is the benchmark of their national character.

Kindred Spirits

Here is the beautiful story that Constance told.

In 1847, at the height of the Great Hunger, the people of Ireland received a notable gift from an unlikely source. The Choctaw Nation knew a thing or two about hunger, having traversed the Trail of Tears from Alabama and Mississippi to Oklahoma during the 1830’s, experiencing decimation, disease, and famine along the way. When they learned of the famine in Ireland, the Choctaw took up collection and sent $170 to aid the Irish. A huge gift at the time, from one impoverished people to another.

The Irish have long memories of hunger and of generosity. In the 21st century, the Midleton Town Council commissioned Kindred Spirits, the monumental sculpture by Alex Pentek, in appreciation for the Choctaw gift. A delegation of twenty Choctaw travelled to Midleton to attend the sculpture’s unveiling in 2017.

How often in life is the assistance we desperately need delivered by those who, seemingly, have so little to offer.

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What Makes Something a Play?

Posted on 10/21/2025 by paulefallon

Sardines (a comedy about death)

Written by Chris Grace

Directed by Eric Michaud

The Huntington

October 11 to November 16, 2025

Way back in the last century, when people appreciated Woody Allen without reservation, I saw all his movies. I loved the sophisticated banter, the underlying expectation that out of seemingly ordinary interactions among searching souls, deep meaning would arise. I sat enraptured, until the white on black end credits rolled. Then I’d feel mildly deflated. Not because the movie ended. Rather because, the depth of meaning anticipated never came to fruition.

The meaning of life celebrated at the end of Woody’s films always struck me as trite, all too often the ambiguous smile of a blossoming young woman. I suppose the triviality was the point. Unless you attach yourself to a particular religion, any of which are insistent upon providing a full-fleshed meaning of life, there really isn’t much point beyond we’re here, so let’s give it a go.

I never revealed my doubts about Woody Allen films. At first because I was a young Turk and he was—WOODY ALLEN—which rendered my reservations discardable. Later, when he became socially suspect, my misgivings became irrelevant.

So I was happy, and hopeful, when Chris Grace shared the same sentiments about Woody Allen movies early on in his one-man show, Sardines (a comedy about death). Further titillating, Mr. Grace announced that by the end of his show, he would make deeper reflections upon the meaning of life.

Sardines is a sixty-minute, one person show performed on a stage with a lovely velvet curtain backdrop and a white stool as the sole prop. Hardly the kind of set for which the opulent Huntington is known. Mr. Grace performs for an animated sixty minutes, all around the stool.


The play is purportedly about death, as its framing device is a family photo from the early 2010’s (which we are engaged to imagine) from which five people have since died. This leads to funny anecdotes of loved ones we’ll never know and clever witticisms about the person Chris Grace. As a comedy, it strikes a chord. As a meditation on death (and therefore the meaning of life), Sardines is mighty lite.

What Sardines did trigger in me, was a meditation on what makes something a play. Plays have existed for thousands of years. There are certain common features among them, though perhaps the only hard and fast rule is that plays are performed live while viewed by a live audience. Plays follow a script; each performance mirrors others. They usually tell a story. They often impart a moral, or at least project a moral perspective. They are sometimes funny, sometimes tragic, occasionally both.

Until the advent of the moving picture, plays were the primary narrative form of collective entertainment. But in these days of movies, television, and TikTok, there are so many ways to follow a story, laugh at a comedy, or sob at tragedy. Why should someone leave their home screen, trudge to a theater, pay gobs of money for a ticket, to sit among potentially infectious people? Because there is a magic in live theater that can only be derived from being present, in-person, among others; watching others, in the flesh, wrangle with the mystery of being human. No image on a screen can induce the same passion, or pathos, as great theater.

Not every live performance is a play. Live music has an aura no recording can touch. Ditto live dance. People still go to live lectures and book readings, in search of the intangible quality of being present together. More and more Boston’s theaters are booked with stand-up comedians. People pay hundreds per ticket to sit in the audience of what will be aired on Netflix, next month, for a paltry subscription price. It’s heartwarming that people still crave the live experience, when the filmed substitute is so much more readily available.

The Huntington produces seven shows a year, a huge undertaking for any theater company. The theater maven in me would like each of them to be full productions of timeless classics and new plays that touch my soul. By that definition, Sardines feels like a cop out. I can appreciate that The Huntington is striving to expand our notion of what constitutes performance art worthy of their stages. But Sardines so perfectly fits into the existing model of a streamed comedy special, I am hard pressed to understand why it’s imperative to see it live. I think Chris Grace should have performed it for two nights at the Wilbur, and then we could all watch it from home.

As the sixty minutes whittled to its end, did Mr. Grace provide more depth of meaning to death than Woody Allen? I will let those of you who go see Sardines decide for yourselves. For me, as I left the theater I reckoned the remainder of my week—tutoring a Haitian immigrant struggling with our language, dinner with my Louise Eustace Fellows, participating in a medical research study—and decided I had enough reason to shoulder on.

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Posted on 10/15/2025 by paulefallon

MIT’s Response to President Trump’s Proposed Contract

As an alum, I was happy to receive a copy of the letter (October 10, 2025) that MIT President Sally Kornbluth sent to US Education Secretary Linda McMahon. As a concerned American, I am happy to share the letter with my readers. May it offer us strength and guidance to stand up for our nation’s core values.

Dear Madam Secretary,

I write in response to your letter of October 1, inviting MIT to review a “Compact for Academic Excellence in Higher Education.” I acknowledge the vital importance of these matters.

I appreciated the chance to meet with you earlier this year to discuss the priorities we share for American higher education.

As we discussed, the Institute’s mission of service to the nation directs us to advance knowledge, educate students and bring knowledge to bear on the world’s great challenges. We do that in line with a clear set of values, with excellence above all. Some practical examples:

MIT prides itself on rewarding merit. Students, faculty and staff succeed here based on the strength of their talent, ideas and hard work. For instance, the Institute was the first to reinstate the SAT/ACT requirement after the pandemic. And MIT has never had legacy preferences in admissions.

MIT opens its doors to the most talented students regardless of their family’s finances. Admissions are need-blind. Incoming undergraduates whose families earn less than $200,000 a year pay no tuition. Nearly 88% of our last graduating class left MIT with no debt for their education. We make a wealth of free courses and low-cost certificates available to any American with an internet connection. Of the undergraduate degrees we award, 94% are in STEM fields. And in service to the nation, we cap enrollment of international undergraduates at roughly 10%.

We value free expression, as clearly described in the MIT Statement on Freedom of Expression and Academic Freedom. We must hear facts and opinions we don’t like – and engage respectfully with those with whom we disagree.

These values and other MIT practices meet or exceed many standards outlined in the document you sent. We freely choose these values because they’re right, and we live by them because they support our mission – work of immense value to the prosperity, competitiveness, health and security of the United States. And of course, MIT abides by the law.

The document also includes principles with which we disagree, including those that would restrict freedom of expression and our independence as an institution. And fundamentally, the premise of the document is inconsistent with our core belief that scientific funding should be based on scientific merit alone.

In our view, America’s leadership in science and innovation depends on independent thinking and open competition for excellence. In that free marketplace of ideas, the people of MIT gladly compete with the very best, without preferences. Therefore, with respect, we cannot support the proposed approach to addressing the issues facing higher education.

As you know, MIT’s record of service to the nation is long and enduring. Eight decades ago, MIT leaders helped invent a scientific partnership between America’s research universities and the U.S. government that has delivered extraordinary benefits for the American people. We continue to believe in the power of this partnership to serve the nation.

Sincerely,


Sally Kornbluth

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What is the Value of Our Town in Our Time?

Posted on 10/07/2025 by paulefallon

Lyric Stage Boston

Our Town

By Thornton Wilder

Directed by Courtney O’Connor

September 19 – October 19, 2025

The cast of Our Town. Photo by Nile Hawver.

Lyric Stage Boston opens its 2025-2026 season with a pitch perfect production of Our Town. The cast is uniformly excellent, the timing is smooth, Courtney O’Connor’s directorial hand is firm without ever being overbearing. Truly, an excellent production.

For anyone who managed to eke through high school without having read Our Town, it’s a 1938 anchor in the American canon. Three discrete days in Grover’s Corner, New Hampshire, spread across a dozen years. The Stage Manager delivers almost half the narrative as townspeople go about their lives with spartan dialogue. Day one is May 6, 1901, in which we meet an array of local folk, both proud and small, and savor the romantic stirrings of teenage George Gibbs and his lifelong neighbor Emily Webb. Act Two, three years later, is Emily and George’s wedding day. Act Three, nine more years on, takes place in the town cemetery on the day when Emily, died in childbirth, joins a number of folks we previously met who already reside there.

Our Town is a parable about the need to pay attention. When the deceased Emily demands to revisit a day in her life, she’s frustrated—astounded—how everyone is so caught up in their insignificant moments they miss the big picture. A worthy idea for a play to investigate.

The problem, for me, with Our Town is that the audience is held at such a distance from the characters that we don’t fully feel the tragedy. The Stage Manager is the first filter of abstraction. Then, there’s the set. Our Town is almost always played on a minimal set (I saw one production with only an array of Thonet chairs). Lyric employs a series of curved plinths before a kind of backyard fence. The pieces get shuffled around to suggest a kitchen, a church choir, a cemetery, but really, they neither warm nor inform the proceedings. Finally, there’s the sheer number of characters. So many that none rise beyond caricature. There’s something fundamentally chilling about a play in which five characters are buried by Act Three and no one in the audience would even consider a tear.

I wonder if perhaps Our Town is actually a precursor to Theater of the Absurd, such is the dissonance between our intuitive desire to experience small town American life as communal and caring, whereas in the play all the caring appears to be nothing more than play acting against the reality that no one is connecting with anyone else at all.

Lyric’s playbill calls Our Town, “An American Classic for our time.” In that, I fully agree. The play wears a veneer of homespun happiness, but scratch beneath the surface and everyone is isolated, fearful, and alone. Which pretty much sums up USA 2025.

The Lyric has created a terrific production…of a play I’d rather not see.

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Choose Your Form of Catharsis

Posted on 10/01/2025 by paulefallon

The Hills of California

Written by Jez Butterworth

Directed by Loretta Greco

The Huntington

9/12/2025 – 10/12/2025

———-

Primary Trust

Written by Eboni Booth

Directed by Dawn Simmons

Speakeasy Stage

9/12.2025 – 10/11/2025

———-

That theater holds a mirror up to the face of society is ever-true. So, in this moment of global retrenchment and nativist fear, it’s no surprise that two major productions of the fresh season reflect domestic insularity. Each presumes our traumas are locked within our family histories, and our catharsis must emerge from the same source. Beyond that, similarities end.

Anyone who’s ever pedaled the hills of California can appreciate their unique geography. Undulating knolls of brown grass, speckled with scrub trees. Distinct, yet not difficult to navigate. Brimming with fertile promise, for given only modest rain, the hills burst into bloom, and thus fulfill the promise—the Golden State fantasy—that California offers every drifter and dreamer.

According to the Johnny Mercer hit song, “the hills of California are something to see…you’ll settle down forever and never stray from the view.” In Jez Butterworth’s The Hills of California, we never get anywhere near the view. We’re trapped in The Sea View Luxury Spa Resort in Blackpool, England, which is not luxury, has no spa, nor any sea view. It’s 1976, when four sisters come together to attend their dying mother. And also 1955, when their younger versions are being molded into their mum’s vision of the Andrews Sisters.

This being a Huntington production, the production values are grand. When the set is revealed, the audience gasps and applauds. Again when it rotates. For me, it’s all too polished. The Sea View is supposed to be old and crotchety. I want the set to sag, to creak when it turns, to reveal the weary tediousness of Blackpool life. Similarly, the double set of stairs leading to the sick room are too tall. I suppose the exaggerated height implies heaven, but the reality is when the cast climbs up or down, their journey turns comedic. In fact, the entire opening scene is played so broad the cast seems hellbent on delivering comedy, when something quite the opposite is in store.

The production finds its bearings, and begins to sing, when we slip back to 1955 and Allison Jean White appears as Veronica, the mother. She is astonishing, both in her devotion to her daughters and her ability to sell them short. Ms. White delivers a bravura performance, singlehandedly balancing the comedy and chaos. She grounds everything.

1955 Cast. Photo by Lisa Voll.

The Hills of California has a cast of thirteen, playing 23 different characters. I suppose the intention is to illustrate chaotic family life, but except for the one male essential to triggering the mother and sisters’ trauma, the extra bodies seem secondary. The four sisters and their mother—then and now—are the main event. Why all the rest?

Despite my sense that The Hills of California includes more than needed to tell its story, I was completely moved by the final scene, when generations mingle and the music perfectly dovetails with their shared trauma, and mutual catharsis. You can feel welcome moisture bringing the brown hills to vivid life.

Speakeasy’s Primary Trust is a simple production. A few elements scattered along the Roberts Theatre’ wide stage represent a book store, a bank, a Tiki bar in small town in Upstate New York. Four actors total. Lines of dialogue trail off without resolution, causing audience members to fill in the blanks. A regular ‘ping’ triggered from beyond (like someone entering a local shop) designates a change of scene, or tone, or time. Spread over a taut eighty minutes..

Kenneth is a peculiar man, likely on every medical spectrum. Twenty years working in a book store, when the owner retires and shutters the place. Anxious, he spends every evening drinking Mai Tai’s with his friend Bert. Only Bert’s not real. Kenneth is, in truth, alone. Sometimes he’s aware of his invention. But when flummoxed, Kenneth retreats to Bert, who truly offers good counsel.

Buoyed by Bert, Kenneth finds another job. He succeeds at it. Until he doesn’t. A spectacular meltdown leads to a gradual reckoning of Kenneth’s youthful trauma and the reality of who Bert was, when once he was real (no more spoiler alert from me).

Local actor Janelle Grace portrays multiple female characters with her usual aplomb, and David J. Castello is phenomenal as Kenneth. His closing monologue is brilliant: a man aware of himself finding catharsis in the only family he has left. Himself.

Janelle Grace and David J. Castillo. Photo by Benjamin Rose Photography.

If you seek catharsis in a hub-bub of oddballs who come together in harmony, go to The Hills of California. If instead you want to experience the satisfaction of one man settling inner peace, see Primary Trust. Either or both, you will be moved.

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Pick Up the Baton and Pass it to On

Posted on 09/24/2025 by paulefallon

The Mountaintop

Written by Katori Hall

Directed by Maurice Emmanuel Parent

Front Porch Arts Collective at Suffolk University Modern Theater

9/19/2025 – 10/12/2025

Fall theater kicked off with a bang this week; I saw four quality productions in four days. Yet The Mountaintop stands above the others, and sets a high bar what the rest of the season will offer.

On April 3, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr. (Dominic Carter) arrives at Room 306 at the Lorraine Hotel, tired and hoarse, after delivering his, “I’ve been to the Mountaintop” speech on behalf of Memphis’ striking sanitation workers. He requests coffee from room service, which is delivered pronto by a very attractive maid (Kiera Prusmack). Flirtation ensues, sexual tension is high, and I think. Wow, this play is not sugarcoating MLK one bit.

About a half hour in, when MLK has loosened his tie, and it seems other accessories will soon follow, the ‘maids’ identity and purpose take a sharp turn that is both surprising yet believable, only to shift yet again into something fantastic which I will not spoil by revealing. Suffice to say that each transformation illustrates the satisfaction of a great play, beautifully executed.

There are so many challenges in making a play about a man like MLK. How to balance the myth and the man? How to create a character that meets our conceptions while adding new insight? How to be inspiring without being preachy? The Mountaintop navigates these challenges perfectly. By leading with his faults, when we finally do hear direct quotes from the man, they are tempered by his humanity. Sometimes his sentiments are voiced by the maid, which humanizes them in other ways. And sometimes we get MLK channeled through the playwright. My favorite line in the play, when the maid is egging MLK on about what in the world Black and white and rich and poor people can possibly have in common, he responds in exasperation, “What do we have in common? We are all scared.” I do not know whether MLK ever uttered those words, but they sure ring true.

Even as The Mountaintop is beautifully written, Front Porch’s production is superb. Kiera Prusmack is terrific, as a maid and in her other two identities. Dominic Carter is incredible. I’ve enjoyed Dom in many local productions, but never seen him so strong. He delivers an MLK for the ages. As the play approaches the inevitable, and MLK comes to accept the premonition of his death the following day, the modest motel room explodes in proportion and animation as director Parent takes us on a fantastic journey from 1968 to the present.

Challenging us, inspiring us: to carry the baton, and pass it on.

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The Kittie Knox Plays

Posted on 09/17/2025 by paulefallon

Produced by Plays in Place

September 20 at Eustis Mansion in Milton

September 27 at Herter Park in Boston

If you’re pumped for the 2025-2026 theater season to begin, but not keen on piling into a theater during our glorious September weather—stay outdoors and enjoy The Kittie Knox Plays.

Plays in Place is an innovative concept that, under the leadership of Patrick Gabridge, brings history to life in site-specific plays. Plays in Place has created plays performed in The Old State House, Old North Church, Mount Auburn Cemetery, and other Boston-area locations. Their newest production extends the idea of ‘place’ to the urban outdoors, the perfect locale to ride a bike!

Kittie Knox was Black woman in Boston in the late 19th century; the girl was mad about bikes! The 1890’s were a golden era of cycling. The development of the ‘modern’ bicycle with two equal wheels and a chain that connect pedals to rear wheel drive made cycling safer than earlier, awkward, big wheelers; people had more leisure time to pedal expanding networks of boulevards and parks; and for women in particular, cycling offered new-found freedom of movement. Bicycle clubs abounded. Cycling was all the rage.

Kittie Knox courtesy Facebook

Still, for a Black woman to claim full rights to this growing sport was extraordinary. Yet, Kittie Knox did just that: competing with men (and often beating them); and claiming a place as a premier cyclist despite her race and gender. These three plays celebrate her moment.

The Kittie Knox Plays are three related pieces, which really feels like one play in three acts. Each segment is 20 to 30 minutes long. The actors are on bicycles, and the audience moves between each act. Action begins in Gay Head on Martha’s Vineyard in 1893, which Kittie and friends explore on two-wheels. Things start off a bit slow, as there is a lot of exposition in the first act, but the action speeds up in 1895, when Kittie travels to Asbury Park, NJ to claim her place at a national convention where many other cyclists are none-too-happy for her presence. Back in Boston, in 1896, the final act takes place at a cycling ball where Kittie’s fame and abilities eclipse the fact that she’s colored—and arrives without an escort. This is the best part of the piece because director Michelle Aguillon does a wonderful job integrating the bicycles into the dancing. It’s terrific!

The ball is a triumph for Kittie, but dark clouds loom as the Supreme Court’s Plessy v. Ferguson decision is soon to enshrine separate but equal as our national disgrace, even as the emergence of the automobile will sideline bicycle travel to the gutter for the next century.

Kittie Knox died at age 26 and is buried at Mount Auburn cemetery – with a bicycle headstone

The Kittie Knox Plays are a delightful way to enjoy the out-of-doors and engage in a bit of non-traditional history. The plays will be presented the next two weekends. Three performances on September 20 at the Eustis Estate in Milton, and the final three at Herter Park in Boston. Admission is free but reservations are required. Ride your bike to either spot and enjoy!

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