In an era of vanishing cultural authority and ever-abbreviated attention spans, being called relevant is one of the best compliments a work of art can get. We’ve always celebrated art that seems to speak to our political and cultural moments, but these days — when the news relentlessly inundates us — art can feel like a surrogate, a response we’re unable to summon ourselves. Relevancy is less a compliment now than an expectation.

And of all the creative genres — music, film, television, literature — the form that we most expect to answer the confusion of the time is, arguably, theater. This, says Mark Harris in his story about the politicization of American theater, is partly because of theater’s inherent intimacy. Unlike a movie, it can only be watched by a certain number of people over a limited amount of time; and moreover, those people have to be able to 1) afford to see a play, and 2) get themselves to the theater itself. Mass entertainment it’s not.

Yet despite its relative exclusivity, theater’s cultural reach is much broader than one might imagine, its reverberations more profound and longer lasting. And in 2025, Harris writes, “the idea that all theater is political is less a rhetorical exercise than an irrefutable reality.” The proof is in the current season of both dramas and musicals, with new offerings and revivals about, variously, immigration, race, vaccines and bodily autonomy. We want theater to articulate what we can’t; we want it to provide catharsis; we want it to speak to our anger and give us hope. But increasingly, Harris says, the question isn’t so much what can theater do for us as what we can do for theater. “What,” he asks, “does political theater want to do to its audience? Affirm us in our beliefs? Galvanize us into action? Shake us up? Persuade us? Provoke us? Rebuke us?” Any one of those things; all of them. What we may want most, though, is to feel something at all.