A bully it takes place on a hot summer’s day in 1983, in a beautiful, ramshackle part of England. Roald Dahl, the world-renowned children’s author, is in dire straits. His body is full of pain, his new book, Witchesis about to be released, and a public outcry over the revision of his latest book—a scathing critique of Israel’s siege of Beirut the previous year, laced with antisemitic comments—hangs in the air.
His fiancee and British Jewish publisher Bob also weave Dahl’s fast, idiosyncratic, and chaotic energy. When a young female representative, from Farrar, Straus and Giroux, his New York publisher, who is also Jewish, arrives to help apologize to their star author, the house slowly, unknowingly turns into a battlefield.
Dahl, who began to be offended, becomes an angry person, confronting his American guest with hard facts about his review and the difference between rational speech and brutal racism. Back at the wall, Dahl must decide – to apologize or not. His final decision—a surprisingly antisemitic one—is a matter of public record. A bully he thinks about the path that took this man to a decision that destroys him, that still tarnishes his legacy.
Mark Rosenblatt A bully it is powerful not because it condemns antisemitism, but because it understands how antisemitism survives. Many plays about apartheid clearly comfort the audience. They assured us that we would have seen it sooner. A bully makes no such guarantee.
The game does not treat it as a flaw in civilized man, but as an idea that cannot be fully integrated into a person’s worldview and self-perception. Dahl sees himself through the rose-tinted lens of honor, chivalry even – an RAF pilot in the war, a man of undisputed integrity, a conqueror of the evil of fascism. A bully it shows how such a person can honestly believe himself to be principled, rational and courageous while at the same time freely expressing anti-religious views. That’s very disturbing—and even more true.
The play explores antisemitism not as ignorance, but as conviction. Dahl does not speak as a truth-seeker; he speaks like a man who is sure that his wisdom frees him from scrutiny. The play understands that prejudice often survives on vanity—on the seductive belief that one’s views are more powerful or more insightful than those of others.
This is where the game becomes truly dangerous in the best sense of the word. It includes not only the speaker, but also the audience around him. Self-forgiving friends. Rebel colleagues. The magicians who separate the art from the artist. A bully reveals Judaism as a social system supported by peace, shelter and honor.
Yet the game is never didactic. Trust the audience enough to let the discomfort do the work. There are no speeches designed to let go of the shoulder. There is no easy redemption. There is no emotional cleansing. Instead, the audience is left with the more difficult task of realizing how charisma can kill moral judgment.
That may be the game’s greatest achievement as a tool against anti-Semitism. It doesn’t just renounce hate; it learns its beauty, its intelligence, its eloquence and therefore its persistence. In doing so, it dispels the comforting dream that culture itself is a protection against discrimination. A bully he understands something important and frightening: famous musicians are not as discriminating as brilliant scientists or clairvoyant politicians. On the contrary, their size often gives their prejudices even more reach.
The result is not just a play by Roald Dahl. It’s a play about the lure of certainty, the corruption of reputation and the eternal human temptation to confuse anger with reality. This is why the audience leaves the argument. And that’s why the game is important today.
