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The subject, he says, “ripped me apart.” Because “with Dahl himself, I wrote from a place of both criticism and affection. Here was a man I grew up reading, who helped shape my imagination, and who I now love to read to my children. Yet he was also someone who, by his own admission, hated people like me. So writing about him, or a version of him, was constantly juggling those two truths. And that was often painful.” As with the process of writing about the politics surrounding Israel and Palestine, “writing about each character’s politics with complete honesty and rigor, to dig deep and find everything I could to make their positions real, sincere, and true. But, in doing so, you are painfully reminded of how tragically irreconcilable the deepest and most visceral human truths are.”
One remarkable thing about Giant, which premiered this week (a week in which Israel launched an airstrike on central Beirut), among other things, is that Mark Rosenblatt began writing it in 2018. Yet it feels surprisingly, uncomfortably prescient. Rosenblatt said that as he was writing the play, he and his wife discussed its themes. “Those kitchen conversations certainly escalated after October 7 as the anguish and brutality of the situation grew,” he told me. “The despair at the loss of life, the cruelty and brutality, the shock at the often unchecked, often medieval prejudice that was being expressed toward Jews and Palestinians online.”
The lunch was imaginary; Dahl’s assessment was real—“never has a race of people generated so much sympathy throughout the world,” he wrote, “and then succeeded in turning that sympathy into hatred and disgust.” He then called a journalist to record (and this was also true), that although he had long been against Israel, he had now “become an anti-Semite,” because “even a rotten man like Hitler did not bully them for no reason.” As I read this, deep in the rows of the Royal Court Theatre in London, my jaw dropped. Partly because of the shallow, superficial hatred, and partly because the word “rotten” is so Dahl-like, it evokes all the dirty pleasures of his stories—you are struck both by the conundrum of separating artists from their art, and by how quickly meaningful debate around Israel can slide into violence.
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