Showing posts with label Dramatists Guild of America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dramatists Guild of America. Show all posts

12 December 2025

More on Censorship of School Theater


[In “Censorship on School Stages” (30 July 2023), I wrote:

The First Amendment to our Constitution—Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech . . .—is supposed to protect artistic expression.  It’s significant, though, that the First Amendment constrains only government action—federal, state, and local—not private conduct.  State-supported (that is, ‘public’) schools, whether primary and secondary schools or state colleges and universities, are arms of the government, however. . . .

As I declared on Rick On Theater back in 2010 in ”The First Amendment & The Arts,” I’m fundamentally a First Amendment absolutist.  In that post, I quoted one of my favorite theater lines, from Peter Stone and Sherman Edwards’s Tony-winning (Best Musical) 1969 Broadway musical, 1776.  

The character Stephen Hopkins (1707-85), delegate from Rhode Island to the Continental Congress and signer of the Declaration of Independence, declares, when asked for his vote for or against an open debate on independence:

Well, I’ll tell y’—in all my years I never heard, seen, nor smelled an issue that was so dangerous it couldn’t be talked about.  Hell yes, I’m for debatin’ anything . . .!

That’s exactly how I feel about free speech.  In this democracy, we shouldn’t be constrained from talking about anything.  That includes ideas other people don’t like.  

The only proper response to speech we don’t like is more speech.  Justice Louis D. Brandeis (1856-1941; Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States: 1916-39) wrote that in 1927 (Whitney v. California).  You don’t cut people off when you don’t like what they’re saying; you debate them.  (It’s known as “The Counterspeech Doctrine.”)

[These words couldn’t be more appropriate to preface the post below, two-and-a-half years later.  In the time since I first blogged on this topic, I reiterated my support for freedom of speech and artistic expression in posts including:

   •   “Degrading the Arts” (13 August 2009)•
•   “The First Amendment & The Arts” (8 May 2010)
•   “Disappearing Theater” (19 July 2010)
•   “‘The Arts Are Under Attack (Again!)’” by Paul Molloy [Allegro] (22 May 2011)
•   “Culture War” (6 February 2014)
•   “The First Amendment & The Arts, Redux” (13 February 2015)
•   “‘How to Free Speech’” by Lee C. Bollinger (23 November 2015)
•   “Fighting for Free Expression” (5 February 2016)
•   “‘Arts and the State’” [1990] by Paul Mattick, Jr. (14 November 2021)
•   “Censorship on School Stages” (30 July 2023)
•   “‘The Courage to Produce: A Conversation on High School Censorship’” by Allison Considine, Jessica Lit, Jordan Stovall, and Nadine Smith (21 April 2024)
•   “America’s Culture War—Now at Your Local Theater” (25 October 2024)
•   “‘The Arts and the Battle for the Soul of Civilization’” by Dr. Indira Etwaroo (4 May 2025)
•   “Degrading the Arts (Redux)” (14 May 2025)
•   “Pentagon Bans Books from Base Schools” (11 November 2025).
   

[In The Life of the Theatre, Judith Malina (1926-2015) of the Living Theatre asserted that her husband and partner Julian Beck defined an artist as “a maker of maps” who “will draw up the map for the liberation of dreams: the transformation of ideas into working acts.”

[“The work of the artist,” Beck (1925-85) wrote, is “as the creative of solutions thru [sic] the exercise of the imagination.”  He further declared, “An actor who brings back from his adventures a moment of communicable penetration is a hero, the light of our lives.”

[Artists see the future long before any scientist or engineer can invent it.  Da Vinci saw flying machines half a millennium before the bothers Wright made history at Kitty Hawk; Cyrano de Bergerac envisioned men on the moon three centuries before any Apollo spacecraft was launched; Jules Verne put Captain Nemo in a submarine decades before a real one was built.  As Shakespeare’s Duke Theseus of Athens put it:

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name. (Midsummer Night’s Dream V.i)

[“Things unknown” are often also “things uncomprehended.” “Things uncomprehended” are often “things unwelcome.” It is the artist who is usually at the forefront of efforts to acquaint us with and explain these “things,” often whether we want to hear about them or not.  Silencing artists is an act of willful blindness.  We do it at our own peril.]

“[REDACTED] ROUNDTABLE”
by Robert Schenkkan 

[Playwright Robert Schenkkan’s transcript of this roundtable appeared in The Dramatist Vol. 27 No. 4 (Autumn 2025): “Courage.”  The Dramatist is the quarterly journal of the Dramatists Guild of America.  The discussion transcribed below was posted on the website of the Dramatists Guild on 1 September 2025.]

This roundtable discussion with Jereme Anglin, Brent Lindsay, Dean Jahnsen, and Leila Paine was moderated by Robert Schenkkan.

The DLDF [Dramatists Legal Defense Fund] Defender Award, presented annually at the Dramatists Guild Awards [6 May 2024, presented at Sony Hall in New York City (West 46th Street, near Times Square)], is given in recognition of an individual, group, or organization’s efforts in support of free expression in the dramatic arts. For its 2024 award, the DLDF board named the students at Santa Rosa High School’s ArtQuest Theatre, who led a fight against the school’s attempt to shut down their production of Dog Sees God and then helped create a new theatrical work, [REDACTED], to comment on their experience; their drama teacher, Jereme Anglin; Brent Lindsay, artistic director of The Imaginists, who helped the students create [REDACTED]; and the Mercury Theater of Petaluma [22 miles south of Santa Rosa], for providing a new home for Dog Sees God after performances were suspended at the high school. On July 20, DLDF board member and Pulitzer Prize-winning dramatist Robert Schenkkan met with students Leila Paine and Dean Jahnsen, as well as Jereme and Brent, to discuss their experience.

[Santa Rosa High is in Santa Rosa, California. With a population as of the 2020 census of a little under 180,000, Santa Rosa’s the seat of Sonoma County, in the North Bay region of the San Francisco Bay Area. SRHS, founded in 1874, has a student body of just over 1,600.

[The ArtQuest program at SRHS was launched in 1994 to “provide an above and beyond experience for students who wish to concentrate on the [visual and performing] arts during their high school years and for whom creativity and artistic expression is of paramount importance.” It provides students with the skills to pursue conservatory, college, and professional paths.

[The Imaginists, a theater collective that has been part of Santa Rosa’s culture scene since 2002, is, according to its website, “an artist-run performing arts organization that explores the intersection of art and community, honoring the power of live performance as a vital space for questioning, dialogue, and invention. From original new works to community-based projects, education initiatives, site-specific works, and international collaborations, the Imaginists up-end convention, re-imagine public space, and cultivate radical inclusion as they continually re-think theater: who participates, where it happens, and what it is.”

[Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead is a 2004 written by Bert V. Royal. It’s an “unauthorized continuation” play that reimagines characters from the Charles M. Schulz comic strip Peanuts as degenerate teenagers. (It’s unauthorized and unapproved by the Schulz estate or United Features Syndicate.) Substance abuse, eating disorders, teen violence, rebellion, sexual relations and identity are among the issues covered in this parody.

[Dog Sees God was first presented in a reading on 3 May 2004 at the Barrow Street Theatre in New York City’s Greenwich Village. It had its world premiere at the 2004 New York International Fringe Festival (13-29 August 2024). It was presented Off-Off-Broadway at the SoHo Playhouse (in the Hudson Square section on western SoHo) from 13 August to 19 September 2004, produced by Sorrel Tomilinson/File 14 Productions.

[The play received its Off-Broadway premiere at the Century Center for the Performing Arts, running from 15 December 2005-20 February 2006. The production was directed by Trip Cullman; the set design was by David Korins; the costume design was by Jenny Mannis; the lighting design was by Brian MacDevitt; the sound design was by Darron L. West.

[Later productions were mounted in Los Angeles (2008 and 2024 for the play’s 20th anniversary); Manchester, U.K. (2009); and Toronto, Canada (2009), among other places.]

Jereme Anglin: My name is Jereme Anglin. I’m the theatre teacher at ArtQuest at Santa Rosa High School. Dean and Leila are my students, and Brent is a guest artist that we bring in every year to work with our students.

Brent Lindsay: I’m Brent Lindsay, and I work with the local theatre company here called The Imaginists. Every year, I go to ArtQuest, and we devise an original work together. 

Leila Paine: I’m Leila Paine. I just graduated from ArtQuest, and I was the vice president last year. 

Dean Jahnsen: I’m Dean Jahnsen. I just graduated from ArtQuest Theatre, and I was the president last year.

Robert Schenkkan: I’m Robert Schenkkan, Council member of the Dramatists Guild Council and the Dramatists Legal Defense Fund. I’d like you to set the stage for this story. November 2024. ArtQuest theatre program at Santa Rosa High School is performing a play and there is some controversy.

Dean Jahnsen: Yes. The play is called Dog Sees God [by Bert V. Royal]. It’s a spinoff to the Charles Schultz’s Peanuts, and it’s basically about them growing up and going through life as teenagers. The play was written in 2004, so it had a lot of pop culture moments from then, and it has a lot of drug use in it, and it uses certain slurs that are not accepted today.

Leila Paine: There are a lot of difficult topics that happen during high school. A lot of stuff with mental health, including suicide, drug use, alcohol abuse, things like that, and just overall bullying.

Robert Schenkkan: Leila, Dean, how was it you came to be doing this play?

Dean Jahnsen: At the beginning of last school year, Mr. Anglin brought four plays for us to choose from, and we gravitated toward two plays. Both of them had very real topics—the other one talked about sexual assault. Our entire class decided on Dog Sees God together. 

Leila Paine: We read the scripts for all four plays, and I think it was a week that we took discussing which one we wanted to do.

Robert Schenkkan: Sounds like the students are super involved at this theatre program.

Jereme Anglin: When the students began as freshmen, the content that they’re given is really selected by the teachers. Same thing as their sophomore year. They’re required to do some Shakespeare, some comedy of manners, and different topics that the teachers choose. But in their advanced years, I like to treat them like they’re a burgeoning theatre company. Students then take on leadership roles and have a say in what content they want to do. When they’re producing their shows, they oversee the budget and all that, so they really learn how to work as a theatre company.

Robert Schenkkan: Fantastic. Would you say there was anything unusual about the selection of this particular play for ArtsQuest?

Leila Paine: I feel like it was the usual. Honestly, it was more entertaining than other shows that we’ve done there.

Dean Jahnsen: Yeah. It just felt like another play.

Leila Paine: In level three, it’s a lot more college level material, but it’s also stuff that we enjoy and find important. That was why we chose Dog Sees God over the other shows, because we really connected with the topics that were in it, and we thought it was important to do, especially in a high school.

Dean Jahnsen: It really felt relevant to the times, and it was true to the high school experience.

Jereme Anglin: We’ve done The Laramie Project [(2000 verbatim play – blog ed.) by Moisés Kaufman and members of the Tectonic Theater Project] in that class. The Wolves [(2016 play – blog ed.) by Sarah DeLappe], She Kills Monsters [(2011 comedy-drama – blog ed.) by Qui Nguyen] . . . so Dog Sees God didn’t stand out to anyone as particularly provocative. [A different instance of the suppression of Nguyen’s play is recounted in “Censorship on School Stages,” referenced above.]

Robert Schenkkan: Which brings us to this rather extraordinary moment where suddenly the play is canceled. Were you informed whose decision this was, and what were the reasons given for the cancellation?

Jereme Anglin: We did our first performance on Thursday night [14 November 2024], and then Friday, before I had a chance to meet with the students again, I was pulled into the principal’s office, and there was someone from the superintendent’s office there who said that there had been one anonymous complaint from someone who was in the audience the night before, and that we were gonna need to cancel the play. 

Robert Schenkkan: Had this ever happened before in the history of your program?

Jereme Anglin: Not in recent times. I heard that in the ’80s they were performing Cabaret, and Cabaret was forced to close because of antisemitism, but it’s really unusual, I think. 

[Cabaret, the 1966 musical with music by John Kander, lyrics by Fred Ebb, and book by Joe Masteroff, was set in 1929-30, on the eve of the declaration of the Third Reich. (Adolf Hitler [1889-1945; Führer (leader) of the National Socialist German Workers' (Nazi) Party] was elected Chancellor [prime minister] of Germany on 30 January 1933.) The antisemitism in the musical was confined to the characters who were Nazis or Nazi-sympathizers—which was part of the point of the play and it sources, the 1951 play I Am a Camera by John Van Druten and the 1939 novel Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood.

[The play has garnered numerous awards, including the 1967 Tony for Best Musical, 1967 New York Drama Critics’ Circle and Outer Critics Circle Awards for Besst Musical, 1998 Tony for Best Revival of a Musical, 1998 Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Revival of a Musical, 1998 Drama League Award for Distinguished Production of a Revival, 1998 Outer Critics Circle Award for Outstanding Revival of a Musical, 2022 Laurence Olivier Award for Best Musical Revival, and many nominations.]

Robert Schenkkan: The complaint was anonymous.

Jereme Anglin: Yeah.

Robert Schenkkan: Were you ever given any more explanation of who voiced this complaint or what specifically they were upset about?

Dean Jahnsen: I believe the first time it was because of the language that was used, and then the other time it was sexual innuendos onstage.

Leila Paine: They kept changing it in every email or talk that we had with them. It was always something different. It’s like they couldn’t agree on one reason why it was canceled.

Jereme Anglin: I have a suspicion that the initial reaction was the vocabulary, the language, the slurs, and some of that content. But after the backlash from the community and all the support we got, I think the district then consulted with their legal team and found that the reasons they canceled the play were not actually something they could do. I think they slowly pivoted toward “protecting the audience members” versus, “is this something appropriate for our students to present?” Someone in the audience could sue the school because they were exposed to something they were not prepared for. And that could pose a legal threat somehow to the school district, if a student could say that they learned about something or were forced to confront something that they weren’t ready to do. 

Robert Schenkkan: Do you typically have content warnings on your play programs and on the publicity surrounding your productions?

Dean Jahnsen: In our morning announcements, we do content warnings. We have one outside the theatre and inside the theatre, and then also in our [preshow] speech. We started doing it on social media as well. 

Robert Schenkkan: So, suddenly, they’ve shut you down. How did you all respond?

Jereme Anglin: When I first found out, I was a little stunned and not sure what to do, but I just sat the class down in a circle and let them know what I had been informed of. At first, they thought I was joking, and then when they realized I was serious, they got upset. People were angry. Some were crying, but they quickly became motivated, and I’ll let them tell you what they did. They’re the ones who did it. 

Dean Jahnsen: I sat there, and I was like, “You’re lying,” and then I cried a little bit, and then I went outside, and I talked to my mom, just because I needed comfort. I noticed that, everywhere I looked, they were sad or they were angry. A group of students left the classroom and went around the school to talk to other teachers on what to do. I thought to contact our local newspaper, The Press Democrat [daily paper of Santa Rosa]. One of our fellow classmates contacted one of the editors. 

Robert Schenkkan: So, you went right to the press! That’s fascinating. And Leila, I gather that pretty quickly, you also pivoted to another production venue. Can you talk me through that?

Leila Paine: Right after it happened, we realized that we still wanted to try and find a way to put [the show] on. The class had all agreed—especially because the show was double cast, and because there was only one performance, only half of the class got to do the show. 

Dean Jahnsen: The cast was split up—the level three class is juniors and seniors, and the cast that went was mostly juniors, so the senior class didn’t get to perform at all. So, that was also devastating, because there isn’t a next year.

Leila Paine: My mom is involved in the theatre community in our town, and I was working at a theatre, so I was messaging her and my boss at the theatre company I work at. Mr. Anglin and the other theatre teacher at our school, Miss Cain, were contacting everyone we knew that had venues. Our treasurer has a connection at another theatre company and was contacting them, so we were all reaching out to find what place was available as soon as possible.

Jereme Anglin: A lot of theatre companies had something already built on their stage, so we were looking for an empty space that we could just jump into, and [we] finally found one in the neighboring town, Petaluma. A little theatre company called Mercury Theater said that they had space, and we could go down there and set up. So, the next morning, we all met at the high school, loaded up our vehicles, and spent the entire day at the theatre. I was rebuilding the set and setting things up while the students took over restaging it themselves on the stage. We were multitasking to try to and get it open that same night.

Robert Schenkkan: The students restaged the play themselves. Is that an unusual activity for them? Typically, would you be doing the staging?

Dean Jahnsen: The students will stage it, and then Mr. Anglin will review it and make sure it works for every perspective in the audience. But at that point, we didn’t have time [for that]. But we did it, and honestly, I think the staging was better than it was before.

Robert Schenkkan: It’s so interesting how you took this moment for grief, and rage, and confusion, and then you very, very quickly pivoted to action. So, you have found another theatre, the Mercury Theater. You moved in. You’ve restaged the play, and you did a single performance there, two performances?

Dean Jahnsen: We did two: one earlier in the evening and one later. It was, like, an eighteen-hour day, nonstop. It was crazy.

[The SRHS students did their two Petaluma performances on Saturday, 16 November 2024. The small Mercury Theatre, provided by the resident troupe free of charge, was sold out for both shows, totaling an audience of 240 theatergoers and raising $3,500 for the ArtQuest program. All box-office receipts went to ArtQuest. Outside the theater was a hand-lettered sign that read: “censorship kills creativity.”]

Leila Paine: Then we got together at one of our classmates’ houses to relax and talk about what was going on, and we all made signs about censorship, and we hung them outside of the theatre where we performed.

Dean Jahnsen: That was the night the article got posted, and our entire community really got involved. We were just reflecting on everyone’s support, and that was the big moment where our class bonded. 

Jereme Anglin: The students were also very active on social media, posting on various platforms, and contacted the playwright, Bert V. Royal. He got on board to support us, so there was a huge avalanche of support and positive things that came out. 

Dean Jahnsen: [There were] theatre departments from all over the Bay Area contacting us, [asking] if we wanted to come to them. It was so overwhelming, but it was so cool to see.

Leila Paine: It felt like it came out of nowhere. Initially, when we got shut down, our entire class felt alone in what had happened. We were like, “There’s nothing we can do about this,” but we found, as we kept pushing and trying harder instead of giving up, that there are lots of people in our community and outside of our community that actually care about what happened. It was strange to see that happen, that it’s not just something small that’s happening to us.

Robert Schenkkan: You were surprised by the response?

Leila Paine:  Yeah.

Dean Jahnsen: Yes.

Robert Schenkkan: This is really extraordinary. And there are lessons here, for artists everywhere, professional and nonprofessional. You did not allow yourselves to be shut down. You did not shrink away in shame. In fact, you stepped up and embraced the issue, embraced the controversy. Publicity became your friend.

As a result, there’s a greater sense of ownership by the students. You have expanded a play which already dealt with serious and potent topics into an examination of censorship and the importance of speaking out against censorship. Extraordinary. But my understanding is you didn’t stop there. After Dog Sees God closed, you traditionally begin a new project with another local theatre company, The Imaginists. What have you previously done with The Imaginists, and how was this collaboration different?

Leila Paine: Well, initially, the process started the same. Every year, Brent comes in, and we usually start [brainstorming] around the same time that we’re rehearsing our fall show. 

We did that in about September/October, and then we’d take a break for a little bit when we’re doing our fall show, but then as soon as the show closes, we jump right into rehearsals for what we’re bringing to Lenaea [High School Theatre Festival]. This year, I think we started a little bit earlier, and we started talking about censorship before everything even happened, how the arts seemed to be almost dying a little bit. That was an idea that we were playing with going into it, and we had a rough draft of the script that Brent had created. After everything with Dog Sees God happened, we jumped straight into making [REDACTED]. 

[According to its own website:

“The Lenaea High School Theatre Festival is an annual three-day celebration of creativity and talent, bringing together high school theatre students from across the West Coast. This dynamic event invites students to perform, receive personalized feedback from professional theatre artists, and explore their craft through hands-on workshops in every corner of the theatre world. 

“Founded in 1956 and inspired by the ancient Greek Lenaea festivals, Lenaea began as an initiative of Sacramento State College (now [California State University,] Sacramento) to nurture and elevate high school theatre programs. Since becoming an independent nonprofit in 2012, Lenaea has found its home at the Harris Center for the Arts at Folsom Lake College.”

[Folsom Lake College (FLC) is a public community college in Folsom, California. It’s part of the California Community Colleges system.

[The Lenaia (preferred spelling; cf. ancient Greek: Λήναια) was an annual Athenian festival with a dramatic competition. It was one of the lesser festivals of Athens and Ionia in ancient Greece. The Lenaia took place in Athens in Gamelion, roughly corresponding to January. Beginning in the second half of the 5th century BCE, plays were performed at the Lenaia festival, whose origins reach back into the pre-classical era, and contests of some sort continued into the 2nd century BCE, though it’s unknown when the festival was finally abandoned.

[The Lenaia festival was in honor of Dionysus Lenaios (“Dionysus of the Wine-Press”; the sobriquet “Lenaios” likely derives from the Greek word lenos, meaning ‘wine-press,’ though another possible origin is from lenai, another name for the Maenads, the female worshippers of Dionysus). Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, theater, and revelry, among other things, was known to the Romans as Bacchus.]

Dean Jahnsen: Every year, it’s a relevant theme of what’s going on in the world, and every year, it always has a message. The year before, when we were juniors, it discussed the toxicities of social media [Dreamletting, 25-26 January 2024], but then this year, I remember talking about Moms for Liberty [political organization founded in 2021 that advocates against school curricula that mention LGBTQ rights, race and ethnicity, critical race theory, and discrimination], their censorship and their influence. And this seeped into when we were writing [REDACTED], how people have influence on the school board, how the school board affects our every day.

Brent Lindsay: At one of the first meetings, someone brought up theatre and how it is basically either under attack, or it is not finding its enrollment. The COVID blip is real. We see theatre and other art forms struggling. I think this came up early in the conversation, so it wasn’t necessarily about censorship, but censorship, of course, became a very convenient way for us to “find our villain.”

The early drafts, I was playing with One Thousand and One Nights [presumably the collection of Middle Eastern folktales, often known in English as The Arabian Nights, compiled in the Arabic language from as early as the 8th century CE]. We present this show at the Lenaea Festival [6-8 February 2025], so this was a way for us to take something that was going to celebrate the art form, theatre, but also be a little bit cheeky—a satire about a theatre company going to a festival and the antagonist being Mommies Against the Arts. So, we were taking those components, and it was rather messy in the beginning. Then Dog Sees God happened in the middle of this process, and I must say it wasn’t just the cancellation; it was then these meetings that came thereafter in the next two months where I had to be in the room—from the principal to the district to the superintendent. Every one of these meetings, I was taking mad notes, and the show was changing and evolving. Between Jereme and the students and me, it was like, “We could write all this into the material.” 

So, it wasn’t just becoming satire. It was very close to home, and quite dangerous.

Robert Schenkkan: When you say, “Quite dangerous,” what do you mean?

Brent Lindsay: Well, I mean, because the other side of this story that, as soon as Dog Sees God was canceled and they moved it to the Mercury Theater, I think it was the next day that the school board had received enough pressure that they allowed the play to continue, and at that point, it was already too late. Am I getting that right? 

[The board reversed the cancellation on 16 November 2024, the day the ArtQuest troupe had scheduled and prepared for their off-campus performances.  The reversal of the decision to terminate the production was accompanied by the imposition of new restrictions, including script approval for future presentations and age limits for shows with “adult themes.”]

Dean Jahnsen: Yeah. 

Brent Lindsay: The students and [their] social media blasts, they were ferocious. The testimonials were beautiful. I mean, every screen in our community, especially the theatre community, was just blasted, so it was very easy for us to turn to our school board, the superintendent, the principal, everybody, and say, “What the hell’s going on?” 

I think that that kind of community support created a situation where they found themselves in a place where it was very uncomfortable. They step back, and then they have these meetings with the students, which I gotta say all seemed ridiculous. They wanted to save face. They wanted to play the victim, and they were putting it on these guys as if they were the antagonists, that they were actually on the offense. 

So, what I mean by “dangerous” is we got to take all that information in quite some detail and write it into the script. So, if school board members or superintendents came to see the play, they saw themselves. There was no question, not by name, but they knew exactly who we were talking about. 

Robert Schenkkan: I wish I could say I felt adept at social media. Could you school me for a minute here, Leila and Dean, on your social media work throughout the experience? What was your focus? How was it organized? 

Dean Jahnsen: It started with us calling The Press Democrat, our local paper, and that story being written, and everyone started reposting. And there would be updates on the article because we kept in contact with the writer. People were constantly refreshing and reading what’s happening, and it was just repost after repost. I remember looking at that post and looking at the other ones that The Press Democrat put out, and it had like, 5,000 likes, 20,000 views, where the other ones were like, 30 and twenty. 

Leila Paine: And then some of our classmates posted the email addresses of the administrators who were in charge of what had happened, explaining what the actual issue was from our point of view—like, if you’re against this, please contact these people.

Dean Jahnsen: We used our company’s Instagram and Facebook, and also word of mouth. It just spread like wildfire. 

Robert Schenkkan: Fantastic. So, I gather the new play you created with the Imaginists was kind of a story within a story that reflected what you had actually just lived through. Could you give our audience a quick explanation of the plot of this new play?

Brent Lindsay: I think that it boils down to a class bringing scenes and monologues to a festival, and you’re always doing your pieces for a group of respondents. It can be one respondent looking at the playwright’s submissions, two respondents or three looking at scenes or monologues. So, this play starts with one student before a group of respondents, and all of a sudden, it becomes apparent that one of the respondents is one of these Mommies Against the Arts. 

It’s all about, then, how do we kill the arts by way of killing, literally killing these students? So, it becomes this high satire of the students being at risk of death from Mommies Against the Arts. And, à la One Thousand and One Nights, one student steps forward and says, “I wanna do my scene,” and that becomes a scene within a scene within a scene and keeps them all living until she can get to the final scene, basically surrounding all the Mommies for the Arts and threatening to tear them all apart and beheading them and all that. 

Then all the lights come on. That same student steps forward and says, “Hey, relax. It’s just theatre,” and then it’s a blackout. 

Robert Schenkkan: Wonderful. And I understand you went on to win a bucketload of awards at this statewide festival?

Jereme Anglin: Yeah. That came as a shock. We always bring original work there, because of the nature of our ArtQuest program. Our students have a lot of training, and we tend to do pretty well at the festival. We have, I think, a bit of a reputation and respect from other schools and other programs, but this year, we really were surprised at how much they had heard about what we have been going through and how much they liked the [REDACTED] script. The big award that they gave at the end is called the Bob Smart Award. He’s a theatre teacher who created the Lenaea Festival many, many years ago, and they created this award in his honor, to go to an individual or individuals who have undergone some significant struggle in bringing pieces of theatre to the festival, and so last year, we were given that award.

[Bob Smart (life dates unknown) was a professor at Sacramento State College (now CSU Sacramento) who guided many students into professional theater careers. The original idea for a high school drama festival at Sacramento State was initiated in 1955, but by the next year, Smart became a central figure in its operation and enduring legacy.

[Smart retired from Sacramento State College in 1998 and it’s likely his active participation in the Lenaea High School Theatre Festival ended then. The festival probably initiated the prestigious Bob Smart Spirit of Lenaea High School Theatre Festival Award, its highest honor, at that time as a memorial to Smart.  It recognizes individuals or groups who embody the festival’s values, particularly for things like fighting censorship and promoting the spirit of theater.]

Robert Schenkkan: Congratulations! And finally, as a sort of postscript to this whole extraordinary event, I understand that the superintendent who initially censored this production was fired. Is that correct?

Jereme Anglin: Yes.

Dean Jahnsen: The entire school board has been going through a lot of fire recently because of consolidation efforts, and she was let go at the end of last year.

Jereme Anglin: I think it was after a series of bad decisions, and then the community just feeling that the superintendent didn’t really mesh well with our community, with our program.

Dean Jahnsen: And our beliefs.

Robert Schenkkan: Very clearly not. We live in a very challenging moment right now. The arts are definitely under assault. Censorship is a very real issue. Leila and Dean, as you look back on it now, what are the lessons that you took away from this experience which you think might be meaningful to other artists?

Leila Paine: I think that the biggest thing that came out of it, at least for me, is that instead of being passive and letting it happen and accepting it, we took all the emotions and anger, what we had gone through, and we worked with Brent and turned it into art. Instead of just letting it happen, we took our experiences and made something greater. And then also the fact that, as artists, you’re not alone. There are so many more people out there who support the arts than you think there are. So, just because you have one person telling you, “No,” or a group of people telling you what you’re doing isn’t okay, that it’s not right, [that] doesn’t mean that they’re right, and doesn’t mean you have to listen to them. 

Dean Jahnsen: What I noticed is that I didn’t really see a lot of support from the younger generation when it first happened, but when I got to Lenaea and noticed everyone supporting us, it really showed me that the young generation is out there to support and defend the arts, especially in the political climate we are in. 

Robert Schenkkan: Jereme, Brent, did you have anything you wanted to add to that?

Brent Lindsay: Hearing Leila and Dean talk about it, I’m reminded that when we performed [REDACTED] at the school, when we had school board members, or assistant superintendents, or even the principal or vice principal come and sit and watch that piece, oftentimes what happened at the end is the whole black box would leap to its feet uproariously. And the one person sitting would be that school board member, isolated, alone, and I think it was just as shocking to me to see that story play out, to see how lonely it was to be that person who is trying to achieve some sort of power that was rejected by the community. And I think that that’s where art lives. When art finds its feet and its power, that’s what could happen, and this show, like no other that I’ve done with the students, absolutely reflected that. 

Robert Schenkkan: This is such an inspiring story, and I want to thank you for sharing it with the Guild. And I wish you all the very best in your future endeavors!

Dean Jahnsen: Thank you very much. 

Leila Paine: Thank you so much.

[Santa Rosa High School's ArtQuest Theatre program premièred the original one-act musical entitled [REDACTED], a piece exploring censorship, on 23 and 24 January 2025 in the school’s Black Box Theatre.  The performance featured scenes, songs, and designs created by the students in collaboration with The Imaginists. 

[The one-act play mocked the topic of censorship itself, and featured student monologues, scenes, and songs addressing mature themes such as suicide and sexual assault.  The play touches on canceling plays and burning books and the fictional pro-censorship advocates, Mommies Against the Arts, chanted, “Protecting kiddies is our duty! / We cancel anything that smells a little fruity!”

[The SRHS production of [REDACTED] was performed at the 2025 Lenaea High School Theatre Festival from 6-8 February 2025 at the Harris Center for the Arts at Folsom Lake College in Folsom, California (119 miles east-northeast of Santa Rosa; 23 miles east-northeast of Sacramento).  The SRHS ArtQuest Theatre production of [REDACTED] won several top honors at the theatre festival, including the Bob Smart Spirit of Lenaea Award and the Gold Medal for One-Act Play Production, two of the festival's highest awards, and 12 additional individual and group awards across various categories.

[According to KQED, the National Public Radio outlet in Santa Rosa, Lenaea Festival Board Director Cheena Moslen said upon giving the [REDACTED] company the Spirit Award:

This group refused to be silenced.  They mobilized their community, pushed back against censorship driven by fear, and ultimately staged their production, selling out performances.  But that hurdle seems to be the beginning of a larger issue of silencing and oppression.

My experience with this school reminded me that we are not just performers—we are powerful, and our voices matter.

[(Besides being Board Chairman of Lenaea, Moslen taught secondary-school English and theater for 25 years, performs as a Filipinx American storyteller, and is an educational equity coach.)

[Robert Schenkkan is a Pulitzer Prize, Tony, WGA, and Humanitas Award winner and three-time Emmy nominated writer.  Author of twenty plays including: All the Way (2012; Broadway: 2014), The Great Society (2014; Broadway: 2019), The Kentucky Cycle (1991; Pulitzer Prize: 1992; Broadway: 1993), Building the Wall (2017; Off-Broadway: 2017), and Old Cock (2024 [world premiere, Porto, Portugal]; U.S. premiere: 2025 [Off-Off-Broadway, New York City]).  Upcoming: ReCON$ruXion at Alabama Shakespeare Festival (April 2026) and Motion/CAPTURE with Lisbon’s Mala Voadora company (workshop in Alentejo, Portugal: February 2026). Member of DG Council, DLDF, Orchard Project, NTC, and New Dramatists Alumnus.

[Jereme Anglin is an actor, director, and educator whose career has taken him from the streets of Paris to the stages of both U.S. coasts.  A proud member of Actors’ Equity Association and a devoted practitioner of the Suzuki Method of actor training, Anglin taught for a decade on the East Coast before joining ArtQuest, where he champions rigorous, imaginative, and physically dynamic performances.

[Brent Lindsay, proud member of the Osage Nation, creates contemporary performances that intentionally upset assumptions and expectations, honoring the power of live performance as a vital community space for reinvention.  Brent is a writer, director, actor, and founding Artistic Director of the Imaginists, a regionally and nationally recognized artist-run theatre based in Santa Rosa, CA. 

[Dean Jahnsen (SRHS Class of ’25) is a freshman at the University of California, Davis, where he’s studying Political Science and Art History.  He’s passionate about protecting artistic freedom and fighting censorship. Dean was president of the ArtQuest Theatre company, where he played a major role as a student activist in defending his program.  He continues to advocate for the arts in the Bay Area. 

[Leila Paine (SRHS Class of ’25) is an incoming freshman at Cornish College of the Arts [since 2025, the arts school of Seattle University, a private Jesuit university in Seattle, Washington] and is majoring in Acting and Original Works.  She was the vice president of ArtQuest Theater at Santa Rosa High School, where she found her passion for the arts.  She plans to continue fighting against censorship and fighting for equality.]


19 June 2025

Jules Feiffer, Part 2

 

[This is the second of two Jules Feiffer interviews from The Dramatist, the official journal of the Dramatists Guild of America, the professional organization of playwrights, composers, lyricists, and librettists.  Like the first interview, posted as Part 1 of the short series on 16 June, this conversation with dramatist, songwriter, journalist, and theater historian Jeffrey Sweet, was dated 1 March 2025 and ran in the Spring 2025 issue (vol. 27, no. 2), under the heading “Tributes.”

[As usual, I recommend reading Part 1, Christopher Durang’s interview with Feiffer, before reading Jeffrey Sweet’s.  There’s a lot of information in the first conversation that crops up again below, and there’s also some commentary from me that I won’t repeat here.

[And a word or two about the editing—not mine, but The Dramatist’s: the editor(s) have made a fair number of insertions here for some reason, and they’re marked with brackets.  But, then, so are mine—and you may not be able to distinguish them.  Sorry about that, but I don’t know a way around that.] 

“THE NEXT PART OF THE PUZZLE:
JULES FEIFFER INTERVIEWED BY JEFFREY SWEET”
by Jules Feiffer and Jeffrey Sweet 

The following interview, conducted in 2014, is excerpted from Jeffrey Sweet’s What Playwrights Talk About When They Talk About Writing (Yale University Press [2017]).

FEIFFER: The only class I taught in playwriting was [at Yale]. [Robert] Brustein called me up and he said, “Jerzy Kosinski was supposed to teach a class in playwriting and Jerzy tells me he’s going blind and he can’t teach. We have to find a replacement. You and I have talked about you teaching. Will you take over the class?” And I started laughing about Jerzy Kosinski going blind; I didn’t believe a word of it. I can’t remember if it was known by that time that he hadn’t written his books, but I don’t think it was out yet. He was somebody I knew and been entertained by and I liked him enormously. But I almost never believed a word out of his mouth. And so I didn’t take his going blind seriously. But I thought, “My friends are always telling me I should teach, and so why not try.” 

[Brustein (1927-2023) was then the dean of the Yale School of Drama and the artistic director of Yale Repertory Theatre. In 1979, he left Yale after 13 years and established the American Repertory Theater (ART) at Harvard University. Feiffer taught a playwriting class at Yale in 1973-74, despite having no formal training. (He attended the Pratt Institute, an art and design college based in Brooklyn, and the Art Students League of New York in Manhattan.) He drew upon his own experience and improvisation to help his students.

[Kosinski (1933-91), a best-selling Polish-Jewish novelist who had survived the Holocaust, allegedly produced some of his books through a combination of plagiarism and ghost writers. There is no concrete evidence to confirm that, in conjunction with the health issues he faced near the end of his life, Kosinski was going blind before his death by suicide. (nb: These remarks were originally footnotes, which except for one recent post, I don’t use on Rick On Theater. I’ve amended the notes slightly. ~Rick)]

I asked for [plays by the students] in advance to see some of their work and figure out what to do. And one of them was this kid named [Christopher] Durang [1949-2024; see the interview in Part 1]. He sent me a play called Titanic. And I thought, “What the fuck do I teach him?” And there was also a kid named [Albert] Innaurato [1947-2017] and so on. Just an amazing group of young people. But Chris was the one I fell in love with, more than any other. And something I said in class about Titanic he put in a play collection. He quoted me: “A prepubescent temper tantrum.” 

[Durang’s Titanic should not be confused for the 1997 Broadway musical of the same title, with which it has no connection aside from the title and setting (i.e., the ill-fated ship). Durang’s play is a one-act described as an “outrageous tale of sex and seduction aboard the titular ship” in The Facts on File Companion to American Drama (Jackson R. Bryer and Mary C. Hartig, eds.; Infobase Publishing, 2010).

[Titanic was presented in a workshop at New York City’s American Place Theatre in 1973 and was then performed at the Yale Experimental Theatre at YSD (now the David Geffen School of Drama at Yale University) in May 1974. It had its professional première at the Off-Off-Broadway Direct Theatre in New York City’s Theatre District in February 1976 and then transferred Off-Broadway to the Vandam Theater (in SoHo) from 10 to 16 May 1976.]

SWEET: When you came to the class, did you have any theories about how to teach playwriting? You didn’t go through formal training yourself. 

FEIFFER: Not ‘til this minute. 

SWEET: But obviously you figured out a course of study for yourself somewhere along the line? Or is that too formal a phrase for it?

FEIFFER: Yes. What course, what study? 

SWEET: The first time your work was put onstage was as a special project in 1961 in Chicago by Second City [improvisational comedy troupe initially founded in Chicago in 1959].

FEIFFER: What made Second City such a natural for me to fall in love with and work with was that I had always improvised on paper. My basic thought process to this moment is making it all up as I go along. After it’s made up, I then start organizing it and try to give it form if the form has not emerged. Often, the form will take care of itself. If you’ve got the right story to tell, the form invents itself as you’re doing it without thinking about the form. But I’ve always been an improviser, you know, without even thinking that that’s what I was doing. 

[Second City director] Paul Sills [1927-2008; director and teacher of improvisational techniques, applying the techniques of his mother, Viola Spolin (1906-94), author of the first book on improvisation techniques, Improvisation for the Theater (Northwestern University Press, 1963)] wanted to put on the cartoons, and that became the show called The Explainers [1960], which later became Feiffer’s People [1969]. The second act included longer pieces like “Passionella” [1957] and “George’s Moon” [1962]. I thought Paul was a wonderful director for Second City—traffic guiding these guys. But for cartoon characters that were written on paper, he had very little to add or seemed to want to add. Mike [Nichols] [1931-2014] came out to see it and said he wanted to bring it to New York, but he wanted to do another version of it. I happily handed the whole thing over to him to do whatever he wanted. Mike was directing for the first time. Lewis Allen [1905-2000] was the producer. He put up the money to try it out at the Hunterdon Hills Playhouse [Clinton, New Jersey, July 1962; summer stock revue] and to bring it to New York [according to Sondheim, it didn’t get there]. Mike got Steve Sondheim [1930-2021] to write some songs for “Passionella” that were going to be part of the show. Steve had not yet done A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum [first try-out, New Haven, Connecticut: March 1962]. He wrote a couple of songs that were just extraordinary. And Mike put together a company of actors; some of them were wonderful, some of them were so-so, but mostly they were good. Ronny Graham [1919-99] and Dorothy Loudon [1925-2003]. Dorothy Loudon was so brilliant in everything that she did. She was loud, she was noisy, she was funny. I loved her. 

I was getting an education. At Second City, I understood these cartoons don’t belong on stage because they’re cartoons and they have no life. In rehearsal, what we were now calling The World of Jules Feiffer, I thought this is great stuff, but I don’t belong on the same bill with Mike and Steve. They’re too good for this. Everything they’re doing seemed to be upgrading material that was not up to their own level. I didn’t feel that I belonged in that room. I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want my first play on Broadway to be carried by Nichols and Sondheim. If I was going to write for the theatre, I wanted to be a legitimate playwright, and not to become a hit because of the favors of my friends.

SWEET: But along the way you did learn.

FEIFFER: For me it all comes out of having something to say. Politics and my anger. And my determination to say something about America that wasn’t being said. All that starts with—not the need to be funny or to write a play—but a need to blow everything up. “Look, you fuckers, don’t you know what’s going on out here? Pay attention!” And figuring out a theatrical or fictional way of saying it and inventing characters to go along with it, who then would take off in their own directions. I knew that if I expressed my rage and anger as much as I felt, there’d be no audience. I had to learn sleight-of-hand. Pretend that this was pure entertainment, and make it very funny, but deliver this impassioned, anti-authoritarian, anti-military argument. [See Part 1 for some coverage of this topic.]

I first started thinking playwriting in terms of TV writing, because of Paddy Chayefsky [1923-81] and his kitchen sink dramas [e.g.: teleplays – Marty, 1953; The Bachelor Party, 1953]. Paddy was a friend.

SWEET: And he went through a kind of metamorphosis into a satiric vein himself after the kitchen sink stuff.

FEIFFER: And for all I know I might have been an influence on that. He was in a rage, but he was always in a rage about everything, and it showed. 

SWEET: You were talking about the starting point for your plays is some kind of rage that you have to transform into a form.

FEIFFER: By the time I was 50, the rage had somewhat dissipated, but it took all that time. [See discussion of Feiffer’s Grown Ups in Part 1 for some insight on this.]

SWEET: Was there a moment when you said, “Oh, I know how to do this”?

FEIFFER: At the end of the first day’s work on Little Murders, I knew I could do this. I had never known it before, but I did the first day’s work. I was having such a good time, and I knew I could make the characters do pretty much any goddamn thing I wanted to, and I didn’t suffer over it, and I had an easy time, a fun time, writing it. I thought, “I’m a playwright.” Now, the two or almost three years to write my novel, Harry, the Rat with Women, I never for a moment thought I was a novelist. The more I worked on it, the more I realized that I was just determined to get it done, but I was not a novelist. 

SWEET: Did that lead you to think about the differences between writing novels and plays? Why one was a good fit and the other wasn’t?

FEIFFER: This is odd for somebody who does what I had always done for a living. I’ve never been very observant. I don’t see things. I see people and expressions and how they move and how they sit, and I can draw any person in any pose that they get into from my imagination. I don’t need anybody posing for me. But I don’t know what this table looks like. I don’t know what this house I live in looks like. I don’t see inanimate objects. Until [I wrote my graphic novel], Kill My Mother [Liveright Publishing, 2014], I never drew a car in my life. I could not draw cars. The first airplane I’ve ever drawn is in that book, and I had to Google “airplanes.” All the backgrounds that are rich in that book were things I didn’t know how to draw. I just don’t see these things.

I love the naturalist writers. I love the evocative writers. [Leo] Tolstoy [Russian; 1828-1910] when he writes about nature. [John] Steinbeck [1902-68] writes about scorpions crawling across the railroad and the names of trees. The only way I can name a tree is to make up the name for it, because I don’t know what any of those trees are. I don’t know the name for anything in nature. A novelist has to have that, some minimum level of equipment, where he knows what’s around him. And I don’t. 

But what I do know is how people talk. What’s always interested me, and [what] remained one of the mainstays of my comic strip, was people speaking in code. How you say one thing when you mean another. That’s basically what my work has always been about. That helping to decipher the codes in which, from childhood on, we are taught exist, and yet when you expose the code everybody denies that there is one. 

SWEET: Someone talking about acting would call that subtext.

FEIFFER: Of course, there’s subtext when a good actor goes to work with a good director. The [Mike] Nichols production of Angels in America for TV [HBO miniseries, 2003]. Al Pacino [b. 1940], who plays Roy Cohn [1927-86; lawyer and prosecutor; chief counsel to Senator Joseph McCarthy (1908-57; U.S. Senator from Wisconsin: 1947-57)], listening to this kid who is worried about his marriage. Pacino/Roy is very sympathetic and very close to him and trying to be very helpful and fatherly, and you can see him making the moves on him, just very subtly, nothing sexy, but a touch here and touch there. I sat there and I held my breath. I could not believe what he was doing, because it was so gorgeous, and it was so clear. That to me is subtext at its finest.

But [what I’m talking about is] beyond subtext. It’s telling us what really is true as opposed to what appears to be happening. Now sometimes that involves subtext, other times not. 

What I loved about playwriting was—up ’til then I had to figure out how to do all that stuff in six panels or eight panels. How far can you go [in that space]? You couldn’t expose [code] in a real relationship, with two people or three people talking. That requires a scene which a comic strip isn’t going to allow you (unless it’s a graphic novel which wasn’t being done at the time and I wouldn’t have been interested in at that time). But the chance to create for myself, theatrically, the equivalent of what I saw onstage in [Eugene] O'Neill [1888-1953] and in [Arthur] Miller [1915-2005] in Death of a Salesman [1949], the Biff-Willy [Willy Loman is the lead character in Salesman; Biff is his elder son, 34] confrontation scene—where] you slowly reveal—or a character comes to reveal—a truth. The difference between Miller and me that I’ve discovered over the years is that he thought, as in the Biff-Willy scene, that you arrive at the climax and you know what the truth is. And I decided years later that you never know what the truth is, and the characters never know what the truth is. Because if you do a confrontation scene, which is supposed to lead to a climax, which was act three in those years. But in life, act three is followed by act four, act five, act six. . . [.] That confrontation is followed by other confrontations. There is no such thing as discovering the truth. It’s all the facets, all the different angles.

SWEET: And participants have their own version of what happened, and they were both right.

FEIFFER: Someone may be more right than the other, or the playwright may favor one of the people, but you have to give everyone his argument. [Except, what] Arthur would do—there’s always the lawyer character or the architect—some middle class guy with a degree that Miller never got—and you know that’s the good guy. What I determined, from the beginning, was that there weren’t going to be good guys. Nobody was going to represent my point of view. My point of view would be in everybody. All the characters, together, if I do the job right. If there’s an argument to be made here, the argument comes in putting together all the contradictory things that everybody says, as opposed to one single character speaking the truth and a light bulb flashing.

SWEET: Your cartoon work consistently depicted the corruption of logic. Frequently you have somebody start off with a statement and then there’s a modification to the statement so that in the last panel they’re saying exactly the opposite of what the first statement was. This carried over into your play The White House Murder Case [Circle in the Square Theatre, 1970], which of course came out before Watergate [political scandal of the Nixon reelection campaign and administration. 1972-74].

FEIFFER: Yes.

SWEET: Which is essentially Watergate but that people in your play spoke better than [Richard M.] Nixon [1913-94; 37th President of the United States: 1969-74; resignation, 9 August 1974] and his gang did.

FEIFFER: Well, [in that play] I had a liberal president. Not Nixon, but a good guy who wanted to do what was best. His wife gets murdered, and by the end the “best thing” to do is cover up his wife’s murder in the White House because otherwise he would not get re-elected and those other guys who were a lot worse would be in charge of the country. So, your own wife is murdered and you end up participating in the cover-up. What mattered was policy. And what really mattered was their retention of power. Basically that’s all that counted. 

SWEET: I always wanted somebody to run that in rep with my favorite underestimated [William] Shakespeare [1564-1616], King John [believed to have been written around 1594-96; published, 1623], which predicts Richard Nixon.

FEIFFER: [A] Broadway producer called me up at the time of [the] Gore-Bush [election]. He wanted to put that play on just before the election. So we had a reading of the play. And he got a wonderful cast including Alan Alda [b. 1936] and Tony Roberts [1939-2025] and invited an audience that was made up of potential backers. It played like gangbusters. It was incredible. Alan was wonderful, everybody was wonderful. And we all went out afterwards to celebrate and drink. And then it became clear that the backers didn’t want anything to do with it. No reason was given, but clearly it scared the shit out of them. This was some 25 years after the play’s premiere, and it was still too hot. There was a message in there that was still too hot for Broadway.

[Gore-Bush (2000 U.S. presidential election): Incumbent Vice President Al Gore (b. 1948; 45th Vice President of the United States: 1993-2001) was the Democratic nominee running against George W. Bush (b. 1946; Governor of Texas: 1995-2000) as the Republican nominee. Their running mates for Vice President were, respectively, Joe Lieberman (1942-2024; Senator from Connecticut: 1989-2013) and Dick Cheney (b. 1941; Secretary of Defense: 1989-93). Considered one of the closest presidential elections in U.S. history, with long-standing controversy about the result.

[On election night, 7 November 2000, Florida’s electoral tally showed that Bush had won by such a close margin that state law required a recount, so it wasn’t clear who’d won the presidency. After a series of legal battles, a highly controversial 5-4 Supreme Court decision in Bush v. Gore ended the recount with Bush winning Florida. This resulted in a major post-election controversy which was only concluded when, in a televised address on 13 December, Gore publicly conceded the election to Bush following the SCOTUS decision.

[Gore emphasized that while he disagreed with the Court’s decision, he accepted the finality of the outcome and urged his supporters to unite behind the next president. While the election conclusion led to some questioning Bush’s legitimacy, Gore’s concession helped to solidify the outcome and promote a peaceful transition of power. Bush and Cheney went on to be reelected narrowly—though less so than in 2000—in 2004 for a second term.]

SWEET: I imagine that you know that there are certain plays that are related to certain periods in your time, and certain experiences, and certain plays that you wrote earlier that if you wrote them now, you would write them differently because you’re a different writer.

FEIFFER: I’m a different human. There was a celebration of Mike [Nichols] at MOMA [Mike Nichols, Museum of Modern Art in New York City, 14 April-1 May 2009], and after they screened Carnal Knowledge [1971], I said to him, “I wouldn’t know how to write that anymore.” And he said, “I wouldn’t know how to direct it.”

SWEET: You seem to be one of the few people who is able to start from theme and make a persuasive play. I find usually when people start from theme, some life goes out of the play.

FEIFFER: I’ve always thought that, too. I thought White House would be my last theme play. I loved writing White House and Little Murders, but I thought, “I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to start with the characters and have the characters tell me what the play is about. And not really be all that sure where I’m going until the characters lead me there.” So pretty much, that’s what I’ve done since.

It was perhaps beginning with Carnal Knowledge that I was thinking [for] the first time of not leaving any fingerprints. I didn’t want to sound like playwriting or dialogue. And I remember years later I stopped in to see the movie, after not seeing it for years. Watching one of the college campus scenes, I sat there thinking, “They’re making this up, I didn’t write this.” And it thrilled me, because there’s not a thing they said that I hadn’t written. But it sounded improvised to me. And I loved that, I loved that. I love it coming out of the characters and not out of the writer.

I swore after Elliott Loves [sic: see note below] that I would never do another play. I said to Mike during rehearsals of Elliott, “This is the best I have in me. if this doesn’t work, I’m out of the business.” (And he said, “Me, too.” And I knew he was lying.) But if all this work that I did out of pure love was going to continue to be critically rejected, I was no longer making money that could allow me to be a playwright by avocation. With young children in my life, I needed to find ways of making money. At one point I could get a movie a year, to write a screenplay which they never made, and that would give me a couple of hundred thousand dollars and that would be fine. But that stopped happening when they caught on to me. For two or three months, I’d write something that I actually liked but I knew they wouldn’t make it and they never did. 

[The Dramatist’s spelling of the title of this play is incorrect: it’s Elliot Loves (with one t). The press of the time used both spellings; in at least one instance, in the same article. (I read one article in which it was spelled “Elliott” in the headline and immediately below, it was spelled “Elliot” in the column’s first sentence.) The clincher, however, is the show’s poster, which clearly says it’s Elliot Loves. (nb: I have not corrected the error in the transcription here.)

[The première was at the Goodman Theatre Studio, Chicago, on 23 April-13 May 1990. It débuted in New York at the Promenade Theatre on the Upper West Side on 7 June-15 July 1990.  Mike Nichols directed both productions.]

SWEET: You must have had a strong sense of the difference between writing for film and writing for stage. 

FEIFFER: Yes. Writing for stage is for yourself and writing for film is for money. Only with Nichols did it really work [for me in film]. Because he and I were working so closely together, and I knew that he was totally on my side.

SWEET: And he also had the power to exercise on behalf of the script.

FEIFFER: I knew also that when he found something wrong with something, it wasn’t because it was Hollywood bullshit. Even when I disagreed with him, I had to seriously consider what he was saying. Playwriting was always fun. Screenwriting became fun as a secondary enterprise. But, other than Carnal Knowledge, I never took it that seriously. It was mainly for the payday. Then I would try to get involved and I would try to do work that I thought would make a good movie. But I understood that I wouldn’t be doing this at all if I wasn’t getting a lot of money for it to pay the rent.

SWEET: One of the things that I’ve been bringing up is the contrast between American and British playwrights. In England they are often allowed to tell big stories. We in America are not allowed to tell big stories anymore. John Guare [b. 1938] had that one huge play at Lincoln Center, Free Man of Color [Vivian Beaumont Theater, 18 November 2010-9 January 2011; cast of 26]. And the other exception is Robert Schenkkan [b. 1953] and All the Way [Neil Simon Theatre (on Broadway), 6 March-29 June 2014; cast of 20]. It surprised everybody by actually breaking even and making a couple of bucks. But American playwrights think we can’t do more than ten people or we’ll never get it on.

FEIFFER: Ten people is a mob! Jesus Christ! Four or five at the tops.

SWEET: One of the reasons nobody revives Sidney Kingsley [1906-95] is today you can’t afford to have 35 people on stage. You can’t hire an actor to come on and do five lines.

FEIFFER: I liked Kingsley. I liked Detective Story [Hudson Theatre and Broadhurst Theatre, 23 March 1949-12 August 1950; cast of 34].

SWEET: Detective Story is a hell of a play. It may be old fashioned but once you give in to it . . . it takes you to the end.

FEIFFER: Those old guys were terrific. When I first came on the Dramatists Guild Council, these guys were on the Council with me. Marc Connelly [1890-1980], was a sweetheart. He was deafer than I am now, and he was the warmest and most ingratiating. As deaf as he was, I’d see him at off-Broadway plays in the front row thinking he could hear. There I was, a little Jewish cartoonist pretending to be a playwright and I was on the Council with Connelly and Kingsley and Paddy Chayefsky. How’d that ever happen? I could not believe it. I could not believe I was in the company of these extraordinary people.

SWEET: Back to teaching at Yale . . . [.] When you were working with young Chris Durang, aside from encouraging him and telling him he wasn’t deluded and that he was doing something valuable . . .

FEIFFER: I didn’t know how to teach at all. I didn’t go to college. But I had them bring in their plays, I cast the plays among the students, we read the plays, and we sat around and talked about what worked and what didn’t work and what could have been strengthened, where the story went. [I would read the plays we were going to talk about] on the train up to New Haven. To figure out how I was going to be smart about them and what I would have to say. And also, I’d have an essay point or two in my mind to make in relation to the play and theatre in general. While we had these plays to talk about, that went very well. There was some good stuff being done. 

[The practice Feiffer describes above for his ’70s Yale playwriting class sounds very much like the way George Pierce Baker (1866-1935) worked in his famous 47 Workshop at Harvard in the 1900s.  See my friend Kirk Woodward’s discussion of this program, the first such course in a U.S. university, in “Shakespeare's Development as a Dramatist (Part 1)” (27 February 2025) and “Part 2” (2 March 2025).]

And then we ran out of plays. And [then] there was a lot of complaining going on about the School and the way they were being treated. And there was a lot to complain about. To get a play on, you had to find a director in the director program to do the play. Or you would not get a play on. And I thought that was outrageous. I thought that was inexcusable.

SWEET: So the directors were deciding what did and didn’t get on.

FEIFFER: I heard enough of this and finally I went to Howard Stein [1922-2012; supervisor of the Playwriting Program at Yale; playwright, essayist, and editor], who was running things while Brustein was in London, and I said to him, “This is bullshit. These guys are here to see their work done and the only way they can learn is to see their work on stage.” And he said, “No, they are going to have to work in the professional theatre and this is a way of teaching them about the real world . . . [.]” Howard, who never had a job outside of the academy in his life, was telling me, who had never worked in the academy, what the real world was like, and he had not a clue. I lost all respect for the whole operation. 

SWEET: So you did it one year?

FEIFFER: One semester. 

And in addition, because I was too busy being their friend, I couldn’t get these guys to write assignments.

They would bring in nothing. Because I was too busy being their buddy, I didn’t have the wherewithal to lay down the law and say: either get this in by next week or you guys are flunking. The next time I taught, which was at Northwestern [University; Evanston, Illinois], I thought, “How do I do this differently?” And the first thing was: don’t be their friend. I’m their teacher, not their friend. That means I can be a nice guy and I can be helpful when I can, but I can’t be good old Jules. Because they will take advantage of it just as your children take advantage. That was an important lesson to learn. Be as helpful as you know how to be, be as friendly as you know how to be, but make it clear: this is what you do, and if you don’t do it, you have no business being in this class.

SWEET: What was the official title of the Northwestern class?

FEIFFER: It was a humor writing class, which involved them writing a one-act play, just as I do now at Stony Brook Southampton [a campus of Stony Brook University in Southampton, Long Island, New York; part of the State University of New York (SUNY)]. At the end of the semester, I have them write a one act play, but up until then I have humor pieces, which are based on whatever idea I come up with. I want them to get outside the voice they normally wrote in. [A voice] is a good thing to have, but it also becomes a trap because you think it’s the only way you know how to write or can write. You become secure in that, and therefore, instead of it being an advantage, it can easily become a disadvantage because it leaves you terrified of doing anything else. 

So, the first thing I have them do, because it’s humor writing and humor is often about victimization . . . [.] Somebody has done something you take great umbrage at—not anything major—but you are very pissed off about it. Write about that, either in the first or third person, but write about that. And then we read it in class and talk about it. And I say, “For the next assignment, you’re the other person. And you write from the point of view of the person who did something to you.” It turns them topsyturvy and they have to have another argument and another voice, and they have to start thinking in a different way.

SWEET: Can you talk about specific responses that interested you?

FEIFFER: The students I used to have in the first six or seven years of the class [in Southampton] were often the beaten-up dregs of society who had gone into self-exile in Southampton. They were broken by drugs or marriage or divorce, some had been in jail, and they all had stories. And they all had a level of motivation and determination about them. But they all had stories. And I helped them tell their stories and put perspective on their stories by giving them humor. I really felt as if I was making a contribution. I really felt as I never felt doing a comic strip. Readers [would say] “how much you’ve helped me” and I never believed any of it. But I could see the results here. I could see the difference in how somebody wrote in a month or so, and it had to do with what I was doing. I thought, “For one of the few times in my life, I’m doing some good here.” And I loved it. 

But after a while the students became more the middle class: nice twenty-year-olds from middle class homes who had gone to NYU [New York University] or the New School [university in New York’s Greenwich Village; formerly the New School for Social Research] or Columbia [University[ or Hunter [College; part of the City University of New York (CUNY)], hadn’t had that much happen to them, and who didn’t have stories, and weren’t that interesting. And I couldn’t alter that much, and I ended up not caring that much about them. So that’s why I stopped after this year doing that class and starting a graphic novel class. We’ll see how that goes.

[Feiffer doesn’t say when this change occurred, but he seems to have started at Southampton in 1997, when the school was part of Long Island University.  In 2006, a year after LIU had closed the campus, it was purchased by the State University of New York, which served a different segment of the population, both national and statewide.  (LIU’s student body comes largely from the New York metropolitan area, including New York City and Long Island. One of its two main campuses, the original college, is in Brooklyn, which is at the western end of Long Island; the other is in Brookville, Long Island, in Nassau County.)  I wonder if this was partly responsible for the shift in student type Feiffer was seeing in his classes.]

Being a writer comes out of need. I need to write. I need to write because I need to put things down because I need, even if I don’t understand what it is, to say whatever it is that’s making me do this. Or I need to paint, or [make other] art. I need to get this out of me. I’m not even sure what it is I’ve got to get out. In those early students, I found that need. In the later ones, it’s more an exercise in a writing class would be run [sic; ‘fun’?], let’s see what it’s like.

I had one 55-year-old Irish woman from Queens in the class who was the oldest one there, who had a checkered family background. She was writing everything from what she knew. She could be very funny and very crazy and overwrought, and she was a pain in the ass. She’d get mad at me and she and I would get into fights in front of the class. But she was a real writer and she had things that she had to get out. And I loved her. She was wonderful.

[The New York City borough of Queens (also a county with the same name) is on Long Island between Brooklyn (Kings County) and Nassau County. Both Southampton and Stony Brook are in Suffolk County, the easternmost division of Long Island.]

Look, anybody with a brain knows, “There’s so much that I don’t know, that I have to figure out.” If you’re an artist, you’re obsessed with finding a way through, not to the answer—although you may fool yourself into thinking that there is one—but to something that completes the puzzle a little bit. At least enough to stop haunting you for a couple of minutes before you go on to the next part of the puzzle. And that’s what artists do. That’s what painters do. That’s what composers do. That’s what writers do. And if there’s not that need to do that, I don’t know why you’re doing it. 

[Jules Feiffer (1929-2025) was a cartoonist, playwright, screenwriter, and once the most widely-read satirist in the country.  The author of over 35 books, plays, and screenplays, Feiffer established his career in the 1950s as a staff cartoonist for The Village Voice.  His wit and diversity of talent earned him an Academy Award for his animated short film Munro (1961), the 1986 Pulitzer Prize for Editorial Cartooning, a place in the Comic Book Hall of Fame, and the Dramatists Guild’s own Lifetime Achievement Award in 2023.  He joined the Dramatists Guild in 1966 and was elected to the Guild’s Council in 1970.

[Jeffrey Sweet was a resident writer at Chicago’s Victory Gardens Theater, where they produced more than a dozen of his plays, winning Chicago’s Jeff Award, two Harold and Mimi Steinberg/ATCA New Play Awards (American Theatre Critics Association), and the Audelco Award.  Jeff directed his play The Value of Names in London (Hint of Lime Productions in association with ANDTheatre Company, White Bear Theatre, 11 February-1 March 2025), and his play A Change of Position débuted at New Jersey Rep (New Jersey Repertory Company in Long Branch, New Jersey; 11 December 2023). His book The Dramatist’s Toolkit (Heinemann, 1993) is in use as a text in a number of playwriting programs.]