Theatrical Creation and Public Debate in the Era of Cancel Culture
Ioanna Lioutsia*
Abstract
This article explores the influence of cancel culture in theatre, comparing the phenomenon to the opaque power dynamics depicted in Franz Kafka’s work. It investigates how modern pressures for political correctness and the aggressive tactics of online activism mimic Kafka’s invisible court, imposing a form of control that may threaten both theatrical creation and democratic public debate. By highlighting examples from contemporary theatre and historical literature, the article argues for the necessity of maintaining open dialogue and critical reflection on artistic works, advocating that such practices are essential for preserving the integrity and educational potential of theatre in society.
Keywords: cancel culture, political correctness, theatre, public debate, Franz Kafka
As George Orwell writes in his book 1984, published in 1949,
“By 2050, earlier, probably—all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron—they will exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into something different, but changed into something contradictory of what they used to be.” (68)
In 2024, Orwell’s words no longer feel like a far-off science fiction scenario. In many cultural sectors, polemics are opened against well-established writers, some of whom are even included in the shortlist Orwell cites.
The phenomenon of “cancel culture,” which drives many of these polemics, exemplifies the kind of opaque power dynamics Kafka portrayed in works like The Trial. Reminiscing Joseph K.’s encounter with an inscrutable authority, the term itself has undergone a Kafkaesque transformation.
Originating in African American vernacular as a tool for marginalised communities to exercise agency against oppression, it is now often used as a slur, often by conservatives and the Far Right. In between its origin and pejoration, cancel culture was appropriated by liberal institutions and cultural elites who repurposed it as an instrument of authority while claiming to advocate for those same marginalised groups. This appropriation, which transformed a grassroots form of resistance into a mechanism of institutional power, mirrors the bureaucratic transformations Kafka depicted, where power becomes simultaneously more diffuse and more absolute. Terms like “woke” and “politically correct” have followed similar trajectories, creating a contemporary cultural apparatus that, like the court in The Trial, exercises power through processes that are both ubiquitous and obscure (al-Gharbi; Garcés-Conejos Blitvich; Hughes).

While cancel culture is often dismissed as a right-wing talking point, it could be argued that it represents a more complex phenomenon that challenges Left-Right political divisions and requires nuanced analysis (see Özkirimli). This is all the more so because it is often discussed how cancel culture functions as a bogeyman for some on the Right, but what may not receive similar attention is how attempts to critically engage with it tend to be tackled with strawman arguments by some on the Centre or the Left. One of the main strawman tactics is precisely to associate with the Far Right even one’s attempt to reflect on the mechanisms and effects of cancel culture.
Many are likely aware of the ongoing efforts in colleges and universities worldwide to discontinue the teaching of William Shakespeare’s works due to concerns over his perceived racism and sexism by modern standards. You may have even encountered or supported such initiatives yourself (see, for example, Lichtenberg; Karim-Cooper; Murray; Pengelly). Mark Twain faces similar criticism, with some attempting to relegate him to obscurity despite his progressive messages advocating for social change and the liberation of oppressed African Americans during the Civil War. His use of the term “Negroes/Niggers,” though consistent with the language of his time, is now viewed as offensive by contemporary standards (Kovalik 196–99).
Another typical case is that of children’s favourite, Roald Dahl, whose books were republished with linguistic changes that soften the content mainly by eliminating the negative characteristics of the heroes, for instance deleting words like “ugly” and replacing others such as “fat” into theoretically more harmless ones like “enormous,” with the intent of aligning with modern sensibilities (Vernon). In addition, in cinematographic and theatrical adaptations of his books, features that would allow us to understand a not-so-distant past and develop our reflexes in the present are erased as offensive. One salient example is the transformation of the Oompa-Loompas from slaves to “volunteers paid with cocoa beans” in the text or their transformation to puppet people on stage (Cantrell and Burton; Eplett; Lohmann; Corbin). Instead of becoming an opportunity to raise awareness of the practices and discourses of colonialism and slavery, and of the ways in which they have been normalised in particular sociopolitical contexts, this disturbing aspect of the text is simply redacted.
While efforts to diversify curricula are not new—the 1980s saw significant movements to expand beyond the traditional Western canon—today’s attempts differ crucially in their approach. Where previous movements sought to add diverse voices and perspectives, current initiatives often advocate for removal or alteration of established texts based on present-day moral judgments. This shift from an additive, inclusive approach to an eliminative, censorious one reflects a fundamental change in how cultural institutions approach problematic content. Rather than using these texts as opportunities for critical engagement with historical attitudes and their evolution, the current trend risks erasing important opportunities for understanding how prejudices have been normalised and challenged throughout history.
This eliminative approach exemplifies how creators, both dead and alive, face a rather invisible court where a peculiar trial is taking place, like the one experienced by Joseph K. in Franz Kafka’s novel. From one day to the next, they not only become the target of cancellation campaigns, but the living are also exhorted to cancel others, both living and dead. This process is marked by opacity and a lack of formal recourse, echoing Kafka’s depiction of a bewildering, arbitrary system of control.
Cancel Culture and Social Media
The biggest issue I see with the growing prevalence of cancel culture in the arts, including theatre, lies in how it operates and reshapes public discourse. Cancel culture, often linked to wokeness and liberalism, exerts its influence mainly through online social networks. These platforms are potent in reach but seldom facilitate fruitful discussion. They may bring awareness to critical issues and, sometimes, inform large audiences about topics legacy media do not cover. As such, they are indeed instruments for democracy, providing space for marginalised voices to be heard, enabling mobilisation around social issues and challenging established power structures in ways that traditional media channels often fail to do. However, even some scholarly approaches that view cancel culture positively acknowledge the negative impact that the constraints and inherent dynamics of these platforms have on the social justice issues they purport to support (Bouvier; Bouvier and Machin).
The very architecture of these platforms works against meaningful dialogue. Their algorithms are explicitly designed to promote provocative content and extreme reactions, fulfilling their primary purpose of generating revenue through user engagement. The more inflammatory the content, the more interaction it receives, creating a self-reinforcing cycle that benefits platform owners while degrading public discourse.
Performativity, such as showcasing one’s morality or criticizing others’ immorality, is a key feature of social media, focused as they are on creating and curating one’s digital profile. Moreover, these platforms seldom provide space for meaningful dialogue, reducing complex discussions to shallow exchanges that emphasize brevity and impact over depth. For example, the former Twitter, now rebranded as X, imposes strict character limits (though not as much as before), whereas Instagram is primarily focused on images and sound bites. These attributes of social media platforms contribute primarily to the calling out of putative transgressions (Powell qtd. in Kovalik 21). This context does not easily allow for any reservations, doubts and nuanced opinions to be expressed, nor does it foster rational arguments and public debate. Social media have rather transformed traditional forms of public shaming into more visible and permanent forms of ostracism (Özkirimli).
Social media platforms may serve as contemporary versions of Kafka’s courts for another reason that is related but not identical to cancel culture: they are seemingly accessible to all, yet governed by inscrutable rules, invisible authorities and often arbitrary mechanisms that seem to have a life of their own. Like the various offices and chambers Joseph K. must go to in The Trial, each platform has particular (but, not rarely, shifting) governance structures, content moderation policies and algorithmic judgments that users may at times struggle to comprehend in vain. Problematic in terms of accountability and transparency, social media management and automation is increasingly resulting in post takedowns, shadow banning or outright de-platforming, often without any real recourse for the targets.
Like the public spaces in The Trial, where K.’s shame becomes visible to all, these platforms also serve as the stage of cancel culture, with accusation and judgment playing out before an audience of unknown size and composition. The accused face not just their direct accusers but an ever-expanding network of observers who can amplify, interpret and perpetuate the judgment. It is understandable why this has been a tool for underprivileged communities that do not have institutional power on their side. However, especially as this tool is appropriated by elite institutions and hegemonic discourses, it creates a peculiarly modern form of public trial where, as in Kafka’s court, the boundaries between formal procedure and public spectacle blur, and where the process of judgment itself becomes a form of punishment. Like Joseph K.’s increasingly desperate efforts to prove his innocence, which only entangle him further in the system, the cancelled individual’s attempts at explanation or apology frequently serve to amplify and extend their public trial. In this context, the surest way to get “cancelled” is to critically examine cancel culture itself, as this reflective stance is often framed by advocates of cancel culture as proof of one’s moral failure.
Cancel Culture and Questions of Power
The reason for this shift is that the real change lies in the hierarchy itself. What’s at stake now is who gets to speak for others, often from a position of privilege. Rather than dismantling hierarchies, we are seeing them transform into new ones, with power moving to what Dan Kovalik refers to as “liberal elites.” The goal is no longer equality, but the power to speak and to silence. As Umut Özkirimli similarly claims, cancel culture represents a significant shift in how power operates in public discourse, where grassroots practices of accountability have been appropriated and transformed by institutional actors. This is particularly striking if one considers that certain manifestations of cancel culture focus on critiquing instances of “cultural appropriation.”

Like Joseph K. in The Trial, who never learns the precise nature of his charges or who exactly is persecuting him, individuals facing cancellation may confront an opaque system of power and authority where accusations, accusers, processes of judgment and ways of appeal or defence remain unclear. According to Orwell again, this time in the preface he wrote for his 1945 novel Animal Farm which was only published posthumously by Sir Bernard Crick, it is not government censorship that is the greatest danger to free thought and free expression but the pressures of societal conformity (“The Freedom of the Press”).
More and more people are given the impression that they participate in the exercise of control, that they have a share in power and that they are gaining power and a say in social affairs through online dissemination and the invitation to engage in cancellation. This is reminiscent of the neoliberal tactic of big business to “baptise” employees as partners to involve them more in terms of their obligations towards the company at work but not in terms of their rights. Thus, it’s not just the targets of cancellation campaigns who find themselves ensnared in Kafkaesque systems, but even the enforcers of cancel culture. It’s similar to Joseph K., who becomes so immersed in the plot against him—despite never understanding the accusations—that he ultimately stops trying to escape it, even developing a strange desire to return to it. Alternatively, it could be compared to the Oompa-Loompas, if that’s a more fitting reference.
There is a counter-argument to be made here. One could say that cancel culture and the preceding but related idea of enforcing political correctness began as ways to protect vulnerable groups from aggressive and/or violent language or the perpetuation of dark paradigms (Papastefanaki 2, 21–27). But are we truly protecting anyone by eliminating such references from an already somewhat safe space, like the dramatic and fictional realms of theatrical or literary works, when violence, racism, patriarchy, sexism, homophobia and so on are solemnly present around us every day? Is a person prepared to deal with this? Have they acquired the tools that critical reflection and engagement with history alongside fictional narratives and dramatic representations can offer? I am afraid not.
Elements that prove Charles Dickens was racist (Casey), removed from their context and historical framework, are exalted at the expense of other elements that are much more evident in his literary works, such as issues of social (in)justice, poverty, exploitation and so on. This practice of calling for the work to be suppressed seems to be a replication of capitalism and patriarchy, resorting to punitive methods over rehabilitative or educational approaches (Kovalik—see chapter 8). In other words, Dickens, who did not belong to a privileged family and class, turned against the privileged through his works, only to be criticised for speaking from a position of privilege. Such criticism takes shape through a convoluted interplay between institutional actors and (often anonymous or pseudonymous) social media users who amplify and legitimate each other’s claims. In the echo chambers of cyberspace, these voices create or feed into trends that are hard to escape as any attempt to argue back leads to stigmatisation, labelling and marginalisation—ironically replicating the very practices they purport to oppose.
In this context, a regime of fear is being created online and offline for contemporary artists (see Appleman 24–37). Particularly in genres like comedy and stand-up, but also beyond, artists today may feel like Joseph K: that everyone is suspicious of them, that they can potentially be pronounced guilty for what they write or say, not knowing who might be offended by what. It is not unreasonable for them to feel that way. If Shakespeare can be cancelled, how much easier could it be for those trying to make a living from their artistic work? In some cases, the question of cancel culture could be a matter of life and death.
So should they not be criticised? Of course, they should. But criticism should be open to dialogue, inviting rather than demanding. It should demonstrate why some points are outdated or could be considered hate speech and so on. Criticism of the use of stereotypes or offensive words and characterisations would be more than welcome if it were not aimed at exemplary and vindictive punishment, as is often the case with cancel culture, but actually at fostering social justice and mutual education. Not everyone adapts to social change at the same pace. Expecting everyone to educate themselves about identity or other sociopolitical matters without properly acknowledging the challenges faced by people from unprivileged backgrounds who grapple with the daily struggle to secure necessities is itself quite a privileged behaviour.
Within the theatrical world, a cancel culture revolving around matters of representation, identity and cultural appropriation overshadows crucial economic factors that shape artistic production and consumption. Instead of depending on the often-punitive tactics of cancel culture when evolving standards are not met (as some view them), more effective strategies for social change should focus on addressing the economic systems that restrict access for underprivileged artists and audiences.
And if one really wants to change something in the world more generally, I see no other way than public debate. The true problem with cancel culture is that it causes people to silence themselves out of fear that their words might result in being cancelled. Research indicates that this outcome is a consequence of how cancel culture has developed over time, rather than merely how it is portrayed by its critics (Garcés-Conejos Blitvich). As a result, what is being fostered—already in progress—is increased polarization. And when debate is no longer possible, violence takes its place.
Echoes of Cancel Culture in Contemporary Greek Theatre
Last year, several plays addressing the main themes of political correctness and cancel culture were performed in Greece. One such example is the performance of Ulster American, which is of additional interest because of its specific focus on the conditions of creating a theatrical performance. David Ireland’s black comedy, which was first presented in 2018, premiered in Greece during the 2023–24 season, directed by Manolis Dounias (see Athinorama Team). The play revolved around the poignant and burning question: What can we say in theatre? And the things we ultimately choose to say, what relationship do they have with the reality of life and our interpersonal relations?
Despite a somewhat weaker or less direct link to political correctness, it appears that the practice of cancel culture concerned yet another performance of the previous season. This involved a production of the contemporary Greek play Hum@anitarium by Stella Papadimitriou, conceptualized and directed by Thanos Nikas. In this interactive performance, the audience was invited to cast votes that would either fully validate and recognize or cancel one of the three online profiles held by the characters.
The Doctor (2019) by Robert Icke, freely based on Arthur Schnitzler’s Professor Bernhardi (1912), is another particularly well-known work in Europe, which last year made its way into Greek theatre. This work of contemporary dramaturgy deals with the issue of political correctness, the power of the internet and the devastation of lives caused by the misrepresentation of their words or the selective focus on specific aspects or moments in a person’s past.
In the performance of the play I attended in Greece, directed by Katerina Evangelatou, one of the play’s characters said: “Last time humanity was divided so much into groups, we ended up with tattoos with numbers on the hands.” This phrase makes me wonder who actually benefits from so many splits and conflicts between groups with different characteristics. As history has shown, those who ultimately benefit from such divide-and-conquer tactics are people and power structures who have an interest in the breakdown of public debate, which is the foundation of democracy.

The aforementioned performances showcase the interest of contemporary artists in questioning and critiquing the emergence of new apparatuses of control in the postmodern era in which they create their artworks. These apparatuses, while professing inclusivity and fluidity of boundaries and identities, in practice tend to establish new exclusions, constraints and rigidities. From a different perspective this time, they limit what is acceptable to be written and staged, and also by whom, elevating self-referentiality and personal, “authentic” experience to the main criterion of acceptance and/or success (see Kornbluh). The subjectivity arising from this trend is likely to reduce the variety of perspectives on social and other issues that have traditionally been provided by the fictional elements of theatre, literature, and other art forms. At the same time, the role of theatre as an alternative public space, where both creators and audiences can freely express their views and opinions, is diminishing.
Reflections and Counter-Proposals
To go one step further, who benefits from restricting freedom of expression and who benefits from developing a phobic climate? Does it benefit the ruling classes or the subaltern more when theatre does not experiment, does not take risks, even the risk of making mistakes? If, as the exponents of the cancel culture movement believe, nothing is sacred and they can decide the value and impact of things on their own (Kovalik 7), why should theatre or any other art recognise any “sacredness” in something?
By suppressing different opinions or expressions, even if they belong to works of the past or reflect a particular way of thinking that may even be criticised in the very context in which it appears, we risk being led to accept the existence of a single truth—nothing can be complex, complicated, partial. Recent research shows how online spaces in cancel culture transform into “other-condeming/suffering emotional spaces where behavior is assessed as morally deficient and, in turn, aggressively evaluated” (Garcés-Conejos Blitvich 75). In such spaces, nuanced discussion becomes impossible as moral judgement supersedes dialogue. Things will always be one thing or the exact opposite.
What I believe could offer a solution to all of the above is precisely discussion; the cultivation of private and public dialogue. Shifting away from outright rejection of works of art, we should strive to engage with them critically, considering the elements they contain within the context of the era in which they were created—much like Deborah Appleman’s advocacy for “teaching the controversy” rather than avoiding “troublesome texts” (118–41). In other words, theatre, and any other kind of art as well, could offer opportunities to learn history and the history of ideas, whereas tearing down history not only eliminates crucial learning opportunities but opens up space for intolerance.
This understanding of contextualisation is a direction in which some large entertainment companies like Disney or HBO are moving. They have started to accompany some of their productions with content disclaimers or even short speeches that frame and clarify references which are inconsistent with our current social model—a model we have reached with sacrifices and social struggles. Disney does this, for instance, with cartoons like The Jungle Book (1967) and HBO with classical Hollywood movies like Gone with the Wind (1939). Such an approach acknowledges that while historical references to forms of oppression, discrimination and stereotyping are problematic, erasing them altogether inadvertently also erases the struggles against them.
Implementing a similar approach in theatre, whether in classical or contemporary plays, could be equally beneficial. Theatre prepares us for life, it is a rehearsal for life, to paraphrase Augusto Boal’s insightful suggestion (98). It equips us with the necessary tools to navigate and understand the complexities of real life. What tools will we have in life if we have not been tested first in the theatre? To do in theatre only what we consider safe is the death of creativity and will lead to a homogenisation of art, to a façade art, which I assume we all want to avoid.
Theatre offers unique possibilities for engaging with controversial content that stand in stark contrast to social media discourse. Unlike the rapid-fire, often reactive nature of digital platforms, theatrical space creates opportunities for measured engagement, allowing audiences to pause, reflect and process complex ideas. Theatrical institutions can facilitate this through thoughtful programming of contextual materials, including programme notes and pre-show talks, while creating structured opportunities for dialogue through post-performance discussions. Moreover, staging choices themselves can serve as critical commentary on problematic elements within texts. Rather than merely excising controversial content, thoughtful reinterpretation can engage with such material in ways that acknowledge historical context while fostering contemporary dialogue. This approach demonstrates how artistic engagement differs fundamentally from censorship, offering enrichment rather than restriction.
However, implementing such approaches faces challenges in today’s cultural climate. While accountability is a genuine ethical imperative, the current dynamics of cancel culture raise concerns about its potential to stifle creativity and limit open artistic expression. Pippa Norris’s 2023 study on cancel culture, while focusing on academics rather than artists, offers relevant insights. Surveying an international cohort, it demonstrates how social pressures and perceptions of silencing can hinder the expression of diverse viewpoints. These findings resonate with concerns in the world of theatre and culture, underscoring the broader argument that fostering a climate of genuine dialogue and debate requires not only addressing harmful speech but also ensuring that diverse viewpoints can be expressed without fear of social ostracism.
In conclusion, I would like to raise a few questions that have been on my mind:
Who has historically determined what is spoken from the stage and what is distributed for reading?
When we reference a text based on moral principles, how did this particular morality come to be?
How can democracy and pluralism truly exist if everyone adheres to a single perspective, with no room for differences or variations?
What can result from complete unanimity?
What kind of theatre and art can emerge if every performance and play follows a predictable path, without challenging or provoking us, without offering contradiction or acting as a response to what already exists?
In The Trial, the whole world transforms into a vast judicial apparatus for the protagonist where opaque powers levy charges that are as invisible as they are inescapable. In Franz Kafka’s work, not even art can offer sanctuary from the relentless accusations of the obscure representatives of the Law. Yet, ideally, art should stand apart from prevailing powers, embodying resistance rather than conformity. It should challenge, provoke and unsettle, acting as a societal mirror that reflects not just what is but what could be. As we navigate this rugged terrain, it is crucial to remember that art’s capacity to question and defy should remain untamed, preserving its role as a vital counterpoint to established norms and hegemonic discourses, whichever these may be (Tabucchi 27–41).
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*Ioanna Lioutsia is a PhD researcher on Performance Art in the Balkans (1970-2000) and its Aesthetic and Political Dimensions (University of Peloponnese). She holds an Integrated Master’s degree in Directing, a BA in Acting and a BA in History & Archaeology. She has been a member of the Hellenic Association of Theatre and Performing Arts Critics since 2017.
Copyright © 2024 Ioanna Lioutsia
Critical Stages/Scènes critiques, #30, Dec. 2024
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