Who has the right to tell someone else’s story?
Andy Mangin, M.F.A.,Associate Professor of Theater and Communication
The essential question we were asking—Who has the right to tell someone else’s story? —is a familiar one for the theater. It’s a question we consider when choosing plays, casting them, and working to make those stories our own. It has always seemed difficult to answer, especially in recent years as theater has rightfully reckoned with its historical power structures. We’ve been forced to confront the blurry line between honoring empathic storytelling and appropriation. The embodied nature of theater made me especially eager to explore this question with colleagues from across different disciplines.
Two specific ideas have stayed with me since the seminar ended. The first is a renewed understanding of why this question is so powerful in the theater. One evening, we attended a performance at Steppenwolf Theatre. Suzan-Lori Parks’ three-hander, The Book of Grace, dissects a family living on the border—both literally and figuratively. The character of Vet terrorizes his family within oppressive structures that ultimately erupt in violence. In our discussion the next day, several colleagues expressed that they felt traumatized by the play. We explored the choices made by the playwright and director that may have contributed to this reaction. But one comment stood out to me. A colleague said, “I feel like I just spent two hours in a room with an abuser.”
This was a visceral response, and I want to honor it. But I also want to point out that, technically, it’s incorrect. We spent two hours in a room with an actor, an actor playing a part. This is the power of theater: to make the story come alive in the same space as the audience, no matter how we feel about the play itself. The question of who gets to tell these stories is especially alive in this art form because of its embodied nature. Unlike other forms that are mediated by time, editing, or the barrier of a screen, theater happens right in front of us, live and breathing. Story becomes real. It is essential that we confront this question, because the ramifications are not only theoretical, but they are also deeply embodied and emotional.
I have also been reflecting on The Devil Finds Work by James Baldwin. While working on a film, Baldwin watched as his script was changed and manipulated by Hollywood. His collaborator altered scenes, reshaping his intent. My first instinct was to justify this translation: maybe the Hollywood writer was simply making the story more palatable or accessible for a wider audience. After all, if we’re too precious with stories, they may never reach broader audiences. Should we, against August Wilson’s wishes, perform his plays with a cast that isn’t African American? Should we value the art more than fidelity to the story?
But Baldwin is clear: no matter how noble the intention, a violence is done in translation. In theater, we pride ourselves on adaptation—on making stories fresh, unique, alive. Shakespeare himself built his canon by rewriting existing works. Yet Baldwin gives me pause. What violence have I done in translation? In what ways have I justified choices in the name of artistic creativity or innovation? Where have I prioritized audience enjoyment at the expense of someone else’s story?
We started the seminar with a question. I haven’t answered it. Instead, it’s led to even more questions. But in my work, I believe that following these questions, rather than rushing to answers, is how we build better ethics and more responsible methodologies for storytelling in the theater.