John Wilson’s name first appeared to me as an apparition — my father’s name, my beloved father, who stood as a defiant beam of light against the suffocating stereotypes America imposed upon Blackness.

John Wilson, the thirty-eight-year-old filmmaker, was drinking iced coffee on his home turf of Ridgewood, Queens, one recent morning. He was in Rudy’s Bakery and Cafe, a venerable neighborhood joint, ...

Plus, get the best of BroadwayWorld delivered to your inbox, and unlimited access to our editorial content across the globe. The evening began by taking us back to the fin de siècle, and a piece about ...