Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July, but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further to 1976, when I was in middle school, and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history, not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776; we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big, like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual, less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism, the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life, first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize on one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite reach me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props, I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture; they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon, listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon, and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face, part disbelief, part pure joy, was a highlight of the holiday season and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging, it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing each song brought to life within the book's full framework gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative- she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own, less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished; it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

Musical Americana: A Comparative Review

What’s striking about 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and Hamilton is not just their shared genre, but how each reflects the era that produced it—and how, together, they form a kind of evolving portrait of American identity.

1776, released in 1972 and based on the Broadway play of the same name, takes us inside the sweltering chambers of the Second Continental Congress as the Founders argue, persuade, and agonize their way toward independence. It’s witty and cerebral, with dialogue that borrows heavily from actual letters and congressional records. The music is clever, but what stands out is the way it humanizes historical giants—Jefferson, Adams, Franklin—by showing them as argumentative, insecure, stubborn, and often unsure. As a child of the Bicentennial, I connected deeply with its themes, and it helped shape my understanding of history not as a set of settled facts but as a living, breathing debate. 1776 reminds us that our founding ideals emerged from fierce disagreement and compromise—a message that only grows more resonant with time.

In contrast, Yankee Doodle Dandy is pure wartime optimism, released in 1942 just months after Pearl Harbor. It’s the cinematic biography of George M. Cohan, the legendary Broadway composer whose songs like “Over There” and “You’re a Grand Old Flag” became synonymous with American patriotism. James Cagney’s performance is electric—brash, fast-talking, and endlessly kinetic. The film is undeniably propaganda, but it’s also sincere in its reverence for country and family. It captures a different kind of American mythos: one built on hustle, performance, and pride. For all its showbiz glitz, it still manages to stir something deeper—a reminder of how music has long rallied the national spirit in times of uncertainty.

Then there’s Hamilton, the newcomer to my July 4th tradition, but already a fixture. First introduced to me by my daughter Faith—whose love of theater deepened my own—Hamilton stunned me with its brilliance and emotional force. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s reimagining of the Founding era through hip-hop, R&B, and contemporary casting isn’t just bold—it’s transformative. It takes the old story of revolution and repackages it for a new generation, with rhythms and rhymes that speak to both the promise and the paradox of America. Watching it, you feel the urgency of the ideals, the cost of ambition, and the complexity of legacy. It’s as much about who we’ve been as who we want to become.

Each of these musicals tells a version of America’s story—from parchment and powdered wigs, to tap shoes and vaudeville lights, to lyrical duels and cabinet rap battles. They don’t agree on the details, and that’s the point. Together, they form a musical arc of American self-perception—past, present, and potential.

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