Today marks the 60th anniversary of the Broadway premiere of Lorraine Hansberry's "A Raisin in the Sun." A major American classic by any standard, it is also the first Broadway-produced play by an African-American woman. It's a milestone that remains as relevant on March 11, 2019 as it was in 1959.

Several years ago, a Seattle newspaper asked me to review a staging at Seattle Rep, one of the finest regional theaters in the country. A lifelong theater buff, I was thrilled when the editor promised free tickets and a stipend in exchange for my opinion.

Whenever anyone remounts a beloved classic of film or stage,  you hope they won't ruin it.  So it was with a mixture of anticipation and dread that I made my way to Seattle Center for the opening.  But I needn't have worried.  As you might expect from a Tony-winning outfit like Seattle Rep, the production was excellent.  Although I hadn't seen the play for quite a while, its impact remained undeniable.  The play resonates for anyone with a human heart, but it's especially meaningful to African Americans because it takes a hard look at a family divided by conflicting dreams and the internal and external pressures that challenge and shape the black experience to this very day.

But Hansberry's play also has a special place in my personal memory because my brother, Kurt Hill, performed the role of Walter Lee Younger (the Sidney Poitier character) when my alma mater, Drexel Catholic High School, produced the play during the heyday of the Civil Rights Movement, about a year before the Voting Rights Act became law. 

The vehement exchange between two members of Congress during Michael Cohen’s testimony on February 27 was more than a failure to communicate.  The argument itself was not only a distraction from the main event, it struck at the core of America's oldest wound.   

In case you missed it, a white congressman (Mark Meadows) trotted out a black female employee of the Trump administration (Lynne Patton) as proof that the president is not racist. A freshman congresswoman (Rashida Tlaib), who is Muslim,   responded by referring to Ms. Patton as a prop,  claiming that Meadows' tactic was itself racist. This led to a spirited digression, which achieved what sideshows always do--divert attention from the main purpose of the hearings.  
 
Although the president's former attorney and "fixer" called Donald Trump a racist during his opening statement, the main reason for the hearing was not to debate the president’s racism.  It was to determine if he had broken the law.

​The last time blackface rode into town, the showdown ended with Megyn Kelly losing her job at NBC Today and disappearing from television.  But not without lawyering up and collecting a reported $30 million due on the remaining two years of her $69 million contract.  That’s how much the network wanted to put an end to the controversy.
 
Now Blackface is back and ready for another showdown.  Will Governor Northam of Virginia lose his job over blackface and Ku Klux Klan images in his medical school yearbook?  Will Justin Fairfax, the African-American Lt. Governor, next in line for the top job, be impeached over sexual assault allegations?  Can Virginia's attorney general come out of this mess unscathed after revealing that he too has worn blackface?  What about Katy Perry's shoes and Gucci's blackface sweater?  Or Cindy Sherman's controversial "Bus Rider" series, which became known in the art world as "Cindygate"? 
 
And what about Jimmy Kimmel, Sarah Silverman, and Jimmy Fallon, who have also resorted to blackface in order to keep the masses entertained?  Or the dozens of other American entertainers listed on this Wikipedia entry? 

​Is there no one who can rid us of this egregious insult once and for all?

With Albert Finney’s departure from the world stage on February 7, there’s plenty to say about his exceptional career.  Two favorite scenes from The Dresser (1983) are included here.  The film is about a small ragtag acting troupe that brings Shakespeare to the provinces.  It’s a sendup of bombastic old-school acting and a poignant study of the lead actor’s personal assistant or “dresser.”  The film opens with Finney's character in the role of Othello.  As you can see from the above photograph, his entire body has been darkened.  Tom Courtenay, his dresser, is shown assisting him with a post-performance bath.  

Taken on its own and out of context, the image is both compelling and off-putting.  It seems especially relevant to the current social moment when blackface is trending yet again.  What does it mean when a white actor darkens his skin to play Othello?  Is that the same as the kind of blackface historically used to denigrate African Americans?  Or something different?  

​One critic calls it Driving Miss Daisy in reverse.  But for my money The Green Book goes a lot deeper as it takes a long, hard look at what ails us—and hints at what’s required to heal our national divide.  Even though it’s set during the early 1960s before passage of the Civil Rights Act, the movie’s themes could not be more relevant to today.  
 
If you’ve never heard of the actual Green Book, which gives the film its name, you’ll learn during this two-hour excursion that even high-profile African-Americans were not allowed to eat or sleep in “whites only” establishments when they performed in the American Deep South.  The film won’t tell you this, but it was a Harlem post-office employee, Victor Green, who published the book.  Between 1936 and 1966, the Green Book was the essential guide for black travelers, providing a city-by-city list of restaurants, hotels, and gas stations where you would not be humiliated or harmed.

“Of course they’re guilty.  How is it possible for men to cross women time and time again and go unpunished?  If men were held accountable they’d hang hour after hour, every day of the year.”  

This crucial line from the new adaptation of Wilkie Collins' A Woman in White comes during the first 60 seconds of a visually striking five-part series on PBS.  But something about it seems all wrong.  Not because it lacks truth but because it does Collins' novel an injustice.  

Part of the fun of the story--one of the first and finest mysteries ever written--is deciding for yourself who did what to whom and whether they're guilty or not.  

​This 2018 adaptation seems to tip the hand in favor of certainty from the get-go.  Its avenging-victim theme is so pronounced, I wondered if screenwriter Fiona Seres was more interested in making a case for #MeToo than in remaining true to the taut thread of suspense that makes the book such a thrilling ride