Creative tension

Cambridge boasts one of the most creative communities in the region. But a band of merry pranksters says public art is feeling the squeeze.

Culture Watch by Jason Gay

Alan Nidle looks confused. It's quarter to nine on a warm Friday night, and a crowd is gathering in the parking lot at Carberry's bakery for the kickoff of a summerlong outdoor film series in Cambridge's Central Square. Tonight's film is All the King's Men, and Nidle, the series' bearded, bespectacled organizer, is trying to get into costume as Willie Stark, the flamboyant politician character inspired by Huey "the Kingfish" Long. He's wearing the trademark white suit, of course, and the white hat and tie, but he's got a problem with his final sartorial item: spats.

"I have no idea how these are supposed to work," Nidle says, shaking his head.

A few minutes later, however, Nidle has the spats figured out and wrapped around his ankles, and he's bounding about the parking lot, twirling a cheap cigar and firing up the movie crowd. "Welcome, ladies and gents!" he cries. "We're gonna have an ex-or-cism! A po-litick-aaal ex-or-cism!"

People chuckle, but Nidle's Kingfish act isn't playing strictly for laughs. Neither is All the King's Men, arguably the seminal fable of 20th-century American politics. For nearly a year, Nidle has been engaged in an old-style political feud with Cambridge City Hall over its treatment of his movie series, called the Wildlife Preserve, which offers such hipster-friendly cinematic fare as Wild Strawberries, Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, and Bonnie and Clyde each week from June until September.

The Preserve and city leaders have clashed over a range of issues including noise, crowds, ticket sales, and permits. Last year, the city shut down the series at Carberry's for almost a month, citing neighborhood complaints, until Nidle and his colleagues could appear before the Cambridge licensing commission, explain themselves, compromise with neighbors, and get a permit. "The city nearly killed us," says the Wildlife Preserve's projectionist, cartoonist Hans Rickheit.

City leaders, pointing to existing laws governing public entertainment, say they're just doing their jobs. But Nidle thinks it's something else: harassment. He's not alone. A small but growing number of Cambridge residents are complaining that their city -- historically known as a diverse bastion of creativity -- is becoming less friendly to public entertainment. In addition to the Wildlife Preserve's troubles, there have been noise and crowd-control disputes surrounding recent street fairs and ethnic festivals. At the same time, some of Cambridge's street performers are complaining about permit fees and selective enforcement of local ordinances.

Even some in City Hall detect an attitudinal shift. "For whatever reason, I'd say we're becoming less tolerant of the diversity that makes Cambridge what it is, particularly when it comes to the arts," says city councilor Katherine Triantafillou.

Certainly, residents have a right to peace and quiet in their neighborhoods, and few would dispute that reasonable regulation of noise and crowds is warranted. "It's a balancing act -- there are residential and commercial interests, and there are people who want to have fun," says Richard Scali, executive officer of the city licensing commission.

But Triantafillou worries that the city may be going too far to accommodate every single residential grievance. The three-term councilor says she was "outraged" by recent complaints about crowd noise at the city's Greek-American festival, which led to suggestions that the celebration be scaled back.

"I think there's an increased tension between those who want the city to be more like the country and those who want the city to be more like the city -- people who gravitate toward sound, light, food, and excitement," Triantafillou says. "Both sides view this as a quality of life issue. It's just a question of which quality of life you prefer."

What's driving the dispute? Ian MacKinnon, a veteran street performer who ran unsuccessfully for Cambridge City Council last year, attributes current tensions to the "Giuliani drift." Cities around the country, he says, anxious to mimic New York City's tactics for stimulating urban investment, are trying to rein in sidewalk "nuisances" ranging from panhandling to food vending to street performance. MacKinnon is particularly rankled by the city's decision to raise its street-performer's permit fee from $25 to $40, and by the fact that there are no public bulletin boards or kiosks left to post fliers.

"You hear a lot these days about the Manhattanization of Cambridge," MacKinnon says. "I'd say there's a real home-and-garden-issues drive afoot."

These complaints come at a particularly volatile moment for Cambridge, when many of the city's neighborhoods are experiencing sweeping economic and demographic changes. The city's current development boom, abetted by the end of rent control in 1995, has driven real estate prices skyward; older, low-income residents (and businesses that cater to them) are feeling the pinch. Ground zero for this transformation is Central Square, where a racially diverse neighborhood known for its mom-and-pop outlets and dollar stores is metamorphosing into a polished strip of eateries and shops more like neighboring Harvard Square.

Nidle, who also runs the nearby Zeitgeist art gallery, worries that these upscaling neighborhoods are becoming wary of public performance and art, which can sometimes be loud and messy: "Instead of creating an aura of artistic excitement, the city's trying to domesticate its art, domesticate its culture."

Cambridge mayor Frank Duehay, however, thinks these public-art battles are less a byproduct of increased development than they are the result of poor communication. Few residents are outright opposed to public performances and celebrations, the mayor says -- in fact, most people thoroughly enjoy them. When complaints occur, Duehay says, it's usually because neighbors aren't informed about an event beforehand, so they get caught off guard by noises and crowds.

"I think it's a matter of notifying people and explaining to them what's going on, rather than having them find out about [an event] when they go to bed and start hearing noise," says Duehay.

On the face of it, the mayor's position seems reasonable. And there is, undoubtedly, a bit of self-righteousness to some of these performers' indignant reactions to City Hall: when you get right down to it, groups like the Wildlife Preserve think they're providing an important public service, and they don't want to pay the city a single dime for a permit. They're even more reluctant to jump through hoops for city leaders, even if those hoops seem reasonable. MacKinnon points out that city standards used to be much more rigid: in the 1960s, street performers were required to audition for city officials, who decided whether they were worthy of a permit.

Still, Nidle and the Wildlife Preserve continue to thumb their noses at City Hall by insisting that their film series represents a political benefit for the newly created Art and Performance Party, not a business enterprise. This allows organizers to circumvent the $40 fee for an entertainment license, since they are not profiting from ticket sales and, technically, collect voluntary contributions at the door instead of charging admission. (Nidle explains that he is mulling a city council run in 1999, and there's even a voter registration table at the door.)

But, to their credit, Nidle and his colleagues are fighting City Hall with their tongues firmly in cheek. When Friday's showing of All the King's Men concludes, Nidle runs to the front of the parking-lot theater in his Kingfish costume and begs the crowd to follow him down to City Hall for an old-fashioned torch-light parade and protest. "We're not gonna play by their rules!" he shouts in a faux Southern drawl.

It's getting close to midnight, and the groggy movie audience seems slightly perplexed by Nidle's invitation. But soon, actual torches appear, and with MacKinnon dressed in a tiger costume and Andrew Hoffman (son of Abbie) toting a plastic machine gun as one of the Kingfish's armed guards, a makeshift mob leaves Carberry's for the five-minute walk to Cambridge City Hall.

It's quite a scene. Pierced punk-rockers at outdoor cafés look up from their lattes and homeless people shout encouragement as Nidle strolls down Mass Ave followed by his corps of torch-carrying merry pranksters, who are now joined by a trombonist playing New Orleans-flavored jazz. A wild-eyed gray-haired man, apparently under the impression that this truly is an angry mob set on burning down City Hall, joins the parade and proceeds to scream invective about virtually every Cambridge public official to hold office in the past 25 years.

Nidle stops the crowd in front of City Hall's front steps and waves a torch back and forth. "The city tried to shut us down!" he shouts. "They tried to shut us down but we wouldn't let 'em." A Cambridge police cruiser pulls up alongside the crowd, and a pair of patrolmen eyeball the scene. MacKinnon, noting the elderly-housing complex next door, tells the loud mob to take it down a notch. "Senior citizens across the street!" he says. "Do not alienate the core voting group!"

The rally is over within minutes, and as the police cruiser pulls away into the night, Nidle, MacKinnon, and the Wildlife Preservers dance their way back to Carberry's to the accompaniment of another trombone solo. Watching them, it becomes clear that while the artistic community of Cambridge might not win all its battles with City Hall, it's certainly going to have plenty of fun trying.

"We're just troublemakers right now," Nidle says. "We're just trying to loosen things up and see how much we can get away with."

Jason Gay can be reached at jgay[a]phx.com.