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Saul Rubinek’s new one-man show asks, Is there ever a right time to play Shylock?
When Saul Rubinek walks on stage in “Playing Shylock,” he’s not only playing Shakespeare’s infamous Jew — he’s playing himself. Or rather, a version of himself: a Jewish actor furious that his production of “The Merchant of Venice” has just been canceled for being too controversial.
That conceit — a play about a play that’s been shut down, starring an actor playing a version of himself — is the brainchild of Canadian playwright Mark Leiren-Young, who wrote an earlier one-man show called “Shylock” three decades ago. During the pandemic, in collaboration with Rubinek, Leiren-Young reimagined the play, which opens Thursday at Brooklyn’s Polonsky Shakespeare Center after a critically acclaimed Toronto run.
“My character was ready to come on stage for three minutes,” Rubinek said in a joint interview with the playwright. “Saul Rubinek — the character — just wants to tell the audience that ‘Merchant’ has been canceled and they’ll get a refund. But he can’t leave the stage. He keeps talking. It’s all supposed to feel improvised — but 99.9 % is scripted.”
Over the next 100 minutes, Rubinek, a longtime character actor perhaps best known as Daphne’s mensch-y boyfriend Donny on the 1990s sitcom “Frazier,” delivers a primer on the history of Shakespeare’s most controversial play, a polemic against cancel culture and a meditation on Jewish identity and artistic heresy in the charged years after Oct. 7.
As Shylock — the Jewish moneylender who is scorned and humiliated by the Christian merchant to whom he lends 3,000 ducats under extraordinary terms — Rubinek, 77, wears the velvet kippah, tzitzit and long black coat of a modern-day haredi Jew. He recites some of Shylock’s best-known soliloquies — including “Hath not a Jew eyes,” an appeal to his tormentors’, and the audience’s, conscience — in an Eastern European accent.
Rubinek said he was imagining how his own father, a Holocaust survivor and one-time Yiddish actor who once dreamed of performing “Merchant,” might have played Shylock.
“That gave me the key to Shylock,” said Rubinek, who was born in a displaced persons camp in Germany after World War II, before his family immigrated to Canada. “I’m not really playing Shakespeare’s Jew. I’m playing how I imagine my father would have played him.”
That patrimony only fuels the outrage of the Rubinek character (henceforth called “Saul”) now that an unspecified social media campaign has intimidated the producers into shutting down the production.
The fictional cancellation echoes real-world controversies: In 2014, the Metropolitan Opera cancelled the international simulcast (although not the live performances) of John Adams’s “The Death of Klinghoffer,” about the 1985 hijacking of the passenger liner Achille Lauro by the Palestinian Liberation Front 2014. The producers’ cited concerns that the production could be used to fuel antisemitism.
Just last year, a Canadian theater cancelled a showing of “The Runner,” a play about an Orthodox man who piously collects body parts after terrorist attacks. The theater explained: “Given the current conflict in the Middle East, this is not the time for a play which may further tensions among our community.”
Jewish activists and the family of Klinghoffer, who was killed in the hijacking, put pressure on the Met; it’s not clear which members of the “community” sought to cancel “The Runner.” Similarly, “Playing Shylock” leaves vague who exactly objected to a new “Merchant,” although there’s a strong suggestion it was over-sensitive Jewish interests. Saul describes a grilling he got at “the Jewish community center,” where a Jewish moderator suggests that a play that centers an antisemitic archetype may be too “toxic” to perform.
Saul reacts with fury. “This? This play? With what’s happening? Right here? In this city?” he thunders. “Where you can’t go into a synagogue without passing armed guards — the real danger to ‘well-being’ is ‘Merchant’?”
Responding to a comically diplomatic press release from the theater saying it would be inappropriate to stage “Merchant” at “this time of rising antisemitism,” Saul scoffs.
“Has there ever been a time when antisemitism was not rising?” he says. “When, when was this magical time? Before or after Moses parted the Red Sea?”
Rubinek insists that “Playing Shylock” isn’t just another shot at woke culture, or a version of the dubious complaint by comedians that they can’t joke freely onstage without risking cancellation, or a dig at right-wing politicians and pundits who police what can and can’t be said about the assassination of Charlie Kirk.
“The show isn’t about the left or the right,” Rubinek said. “It’s not Fox News or woke protesters. ‘Merchant’ could have been canceled in 1936, in 1947, in 2016 — it’s always been a lightning rod. The question is, why do we keep trying to silence the art instead of confronting what makes us uncomfortable?”
When the show isn’t defending artistic freedom, it is probing Jewish identity. Saul complains about the number of gentile actors who have played Shylock, from Laurence Oliver to Al Pacino to Patrick Stewart, suggesting that Jewish actors have been overlooked in a misguided effort to downplay the character’s Jewishness. (Although, to be fair, the Jewish actor Henry Goodman was lauded for his turn as Shylock in a 1999 National Theatre production of “Merchant” that came to Broadway, and the Jewish actress Tracy-Ann Oberman starred as Shylock on London’s West End in 2022. Dustin Hoffman played the role in a 1989 London production that transferred to Broadway the following year.)
“In the play, I say I’m committing a kind of heresy,” Rubinek said. “By making Shylock visibly Jewish at a time of rising antisemitism, I’m accused of inciting hatred. But I think it’s the opposite — it’s reclaiming a Jewish story that’s been distorted for centuries.”
“You want to know why actors still do this play?” asked Saul Rubinek, shown on stage at at Brooklyn’s Polonsky Shakespeare Center. “Because Shylock is the first three-dimensional Jewish character in all of literature.” (Dahlia Katz)
For Leiren-Young, the collaboration offered a way to explore a lifelong fascination with censorship and identity. “It’s not just about who’s allowed to stage what,” he said. “It’s about who gets to tell their own story — and whether we still believe in the artist’s right to risk being misunderstood.”
Since the Oct. 7 attacks and the ensuing war in Gaza, Rubinek admits, staging a play about Jewish representation feels fraught. Yet the production, he said, seeks to hold both left- and right-wing audiences “in the same room, breathing together.”
“I’ve had people who see things completely differently — politically, emotionally — come up after and say they felt seen,” he said. “Because the play doesn’t lecture. It includes you in the fiction. You become part of the story.”
Ultimately, the play is a rousing defense of “Merchant,” allowing Rubinek to show off his acting chops — both in Shakespeare’s original language and in Yiddish. Rubinek has little patience for those — a roll call that includes the Jewish critic Harold Bloom and the British actress Judy Dench — who call “The Merchant of Venice” irredeemably antisemitic. Instead, he said, the play demands that audiences see a stereotype as a human being.
“You want to know why actors still do this play?” he asked. “Because Shylock is the first three-dimensional Jewish character in all of literature. Five scenes, and he’s haunted actors for 400 years. Why? Because he’s real.”
“Playing Shylock,” now in previews, opens Oct. 23 and runs through Dec. 7 at Polonsky Shakespeare Center, home of Theatre for a New Audience (262 Ashland Place, Brooklyn).
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An Israeli media mainstay is crumbling. Will liberal democracy go with it?
The Israeli government has taken another alarming step in its efforts to crack down on the press by moving toward shutting down Army Radio, which reaches some 900,000 listeners a day.
A unanimous Monday cabinet vote to close the station is being sold as a matter of logic, efficiency and principle. Why, after all, should a military institution operate what has long functioned as a national news outlet? Why should soldiers be involved in journalism? Why should the army run a radio station that frequently criticizes the government and the defense establishment itself?
On the surface, those questions sound persuasive. In most democracies, such a setup would indeed raise eyebrows. Militaries are meant to fight wars; broadcasting current affairs, as Army Radio has since 1950, does not clearly serve that purpose. The independence of the press is a foundational democratic norm; there are good reasons to question whether a military-run outlet can uphold it. Strip away the Israeli context, and the case for closing Army Radio could sound like common sense.
But Israel is not an abstract political theory exercise. It is a specific country with a specific history, and Army Radio is a specific institution that plays a role no other outlet can fully replace. Its shuttering would be devastating. And the move to shut it down cannot be understood in isolation. It fits neatly into the broader campaign led by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to weaken, intimidate or take over every independent institution capable of producing criticism, accountability, or resistance.
Army Radio is not just another broadcaster. It is one of only two national radio stations in Israel that produces comprehensive news coverage.
The other is Reshet Bet of Kan, the public broadcaster that itself has been under constant attack by this government, facing unceasing efforts to strip its funding. Eliminate Army Radio, and Israel’s radio news landscape will be reduced to a single vulnerable station — precisely the outcome critics of the government’s media policy have warned about for years.
Historically, Army Radio has been a cornerstone of Israel’s free press ecosystem. It has trained generations of journalists who later shaped the country’s media culture — some while serving as soldiers, others as civilian staff who stayed on for decades. Its newsroom culture helped normalize the idea that journalism’s role is not to flatter power, but to scrutinize it.
That tradition emerged because the IDF, uniquely among militaries, is a “people’s army,” rooted in near-universal conscription and embedded in society rather than standing apart from it. Israelis have long understood that a station staffed in part by conscripts from across the country — religious and secular, right and left, center and periphery — is not a mouthpiece in the classic sense. On the contrary, Army Radio often earned its reputation by irritating ministers, generals, and prime ministers alike.
That approach earned it broad public trust — the same kind of trust that once established the IDF’s legitimacy. Incredibly, the government is also trying to undermine that trust through constant feuding with the military brass, and a concerted effort to deflect all blame for the Oct. 7 meltdown on the military. (Both government and military certainly failed on that day.)
The effort to close Army Radio mirrors the government’s campaigns against the judiciary and the police, among many other targets. Each time, the strategy is the same: identify a real or arguable flaw in an institution that exercises independence from total government control, exaggerate it, and then use it to justify dismantling or weakening that institution.
Netanyahu’s goal — similar to the successful project led by President Vladimir Putin in Russia, and to ongoing efforts in Hungary and Turkey — is to transform Israel into a country with something close to an elected dictatorship. His arguments are never openly authoritarian, but rather procedural, managerial, technocratic — and therefore harder to resist.
Communications Minister Shlomo Karhi’s broader project to restructure, weaken, and politicize Israel’s media landscape, framed as deregulation and modernization, consistently moves in one direction: reducing independent oversight, centralizing power and increasing political leverage over broadcasters. Where takeover is possible, pressure is applied. Where it is not, closure becomes the solution. Army Radio, inconveniently independent and symbolically beloved, cannot be easily captured, pressured through advertisers, or quietly restructured. So it must be eliminated.
Public opposition to the move has been broad and intense, cutting across ideological lines. For many Israelis, Army Radio is not merely a broadcaster; it is part of the country’s civic fabric. Closing it feels less like reform and more like provocation — another deliberate escalation in an ongoing culture war designed to pit Israelis against one another.
That, too, is a feature, not a bug.
This government thrives on confrontation with institutions that command public trust. By attacking them, it forces citizens to choose sides, reframes resistance as elitism or sabotage, and mobilizes its base through grievance and the seductive argument that a government elected by a majority is always legitimate in its actions.
Army Radio, anomalous as it is, stands in the way of Netanyahu’s Putinization dreams. Its existence contradicts the idea that media must either align with power or be marginalized. It reminds Israelis that criticism from within the system is not treason but patriotism. And that is precisely what makes it intolerable to an increasingly illiberal government.
None of this requires romanticizing Army Radio or denying that its structure is unusual. Yes, a military-run news station is an oddity. Yes, in another country, reform might be justified. But democracies are not built by eliminating every anomaly. They are sustained by preserving institutions that work, even when they defy neat theoretical categories.
Israel does not need fewer trusted voices right now. It does not need another symbolic demolition of a shared civic institution. And it certainly does not need to hand its already embattled media landscape another blow on behalf of a government that does Israel devastating harm.
The post An Israeli media mainstay is crumbling. Will liberal democracy go with it? appeared first on The Forward.
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How the next generation of rabbis is preparing for the age of A.I.
Denise Blumenfeld’s AI learning tool doesn’t have all the answers — or at least it’s not so eager to give them away. Instead, Blumenfeld, a second-year student at the Orthodox women’s seminary Yeshivat Maharat, has customized ChatGPT to answer her with questions with a question.
I watched recently as Blumenfeld fed a paragraph of Talmud into the module, aptly named Socrates Havruta (its surname is Hebrew for study partner). Its response tested her reading comprehension: Based on the first line of the text, what is the basic obligation around candlelighting? Blumenfeld typed in an answer, which Socrates affirmed before asking another.
She knew ChatGPT could simply summarize the text, but would that really help her learn it? On the other hand, responding to questions could help someone figure things out on their own. And to keep herself honest, she’d set a rule: “I always try to read the authentic source first,” she told me.
Blumenfeld is part of the first generation of rabbinical students who are training with artificial intelligence tools like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and Google Gemini at their disposal — and hoping to avoid those tools becoming a crutch. But the beit midrash, or study hall, is just one of many contact points they have with an invention that may be changing not only what it means to be a student or a rabbi, but also what it means to be Jewish.
To get a sense of how AI is helping shape the next generation of the rabbinate, I interviewed students from five U.S.-based rabbinical schools about how use and think about AI in relation to their work. Their attitudes ranged from guarded enthusiasm to flat rejection. But their comments — and the boundaries they had each set around their personal use — revealed the deep influence AI is already having on their professional and religious outlook.
This was true even for students who did not use generative AI at all. Adrian Marcos, a student at the Ziegler School of Rabbinical Studies, listed moral reasons he avoided it, among them its exploitation of stolen data, its environmental impact, and the digital literacy crisis it was accelerating. Yet Marcos admitted that the burden of explanation fell on AI’s detractors, not its enthusiasts.
“A lot of people are very into AI, and as a rabbi, whether or not you end up in a pulpit, you have to converse with those people,” said Marcos, a second-year student at the Conservative seminary. “And as the technology evolves, the conversations around it are also going to evolve.”
Hacking the sermon
ChatGPT can seemingly draw on the entire digitized Jewish canon, translate it from Hebrew if necessary, and draft new content about it. For students pursuing the rabbinate because of their passion for seeking and sharing knowledge themselves, the question was whether a tool that lightened the load was really helping.
Aiden Englander, a fourth-year at Yeshiva University’s Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Theological Seminary, engages ChatGPT for on-call intellectual companionship. Upon finding an interesting commentary on the week’s Torah portion, he’ll ask ChatGPT for secular variations on the idea. It might spit out Nietzsche, he said, or a recent news story.
Knowing ChatGPT can make such a connection unlocks a different level of rhetorical ambition — serving as a kind of academic force-multiplier — but it forecloses the possibility of, well, sorting out his concept without it. It also raises the question of what makes a sermon “better,” and whether literature you’ve only learned about via ChatGPT summary is any less suitable for a sermon than a volume you’re still working through on the page.
Englander’s calculus was straightforward. “When you’re able to quote a book that someone is familiar with, they’ll remember it more,” he said.
Though an avid user, he harbors doubts about AI’s reliability. “It will just completely make up a Gemara,” he said, and in his view its knowledge is especially shallow in matters of Jewish law. Yet what ChatGPT can do is what makes Englander, who is 24, most cautious. In a creative pinch, he’ll ask it to bullet-point some possible themes to explore from that week’s Torah portion to write a sermon about. But that’s a muscle he’s conscious about developing, so he tries to desist.
Yet a theological question about AI use persists underneath the utilitarian concerns. Is a ChatGPT-generated d’var torah a bad idea because it’s likely to spew cliches or degrade one’s writing ability — or because the very notion of a computer recommendation defeats the purpose of the exercise, which is to bring human experience to bear upon the Torah and vice versa? Major Jewish denominations have been as quiet on the religious questions around AI as rabbinical schools have been on the practical ones, leaving students to work out both problems on their own.
“An LLM doesn’t have autobiography — it’s not having a faith experience,” said Dani Pattiz, a second-year student at Hebrew Union College. “It can come up with these brilliant syntheses of other people’s ideas. But at the end of the day, it can’t genuinely glorify God, or speak to people’s souls in an authentic way.”
A changing pulpit
As they navigated their own use of AI, rabbinical students were pondering how it would reshape the lives of their future congregants, and in turn, their own work.
On a recent trip to Washington, Micah Glickman, a rabbinical student at Hebrew Union College, the flagship Reform seminary, visited a synagogue where a number of congregants had been laid off in DOGE’s federal job cuts. AI’s impact on employment, he realized, could be exponentially greater. If that were the case, it was not merely that more people would be facing financial and emotional vulnerability. It was also that a universal source of human fulfillment might have an expiration date.
“It seems like the promise of this technology is to basically do anything that a person can do, and do it better than that person can,” Glickman said in an interview. “And I wonder how that will affect a congregation of people who maybe derive a sense of meaning and purpose from their accomplishments in life.”
It would fall on rabbis and other faith leaders, Glickman said, to shepherd their communities through this change. “There’s some impending spiritual crisis that we’re on the verge of,” he said. He was helping organize a symposium at HUC to consider these and other AI-related issues — seeking a spiritual solution, he said, to a spiritual problem.
Meanwhile, he was already encountering ChatGPT-written bar mitzvah speeches from the students he tutors. That put him in the position of his HUC professors: Should he discourage kids from using it, or — conceding to inevitability — try to steer them towards using AI responsibly?
It was a theme across interviews: The future rabbis I spoke to were more worried about how the generation after them would learn than they were about their own trajectories. Today’s students, after all, largely passed their studies prior to rabbinical school without ChatGPT; they were wary of atrophy only because they knew they had muscles to begin with.
Even Blumenfeld, the Maharat student, was not sure she would recommend her Socrates bot to younger students. “Because I had experience learning and teaching before AI, I know what the result I’m looking for is, and know how to ask the right thing,” she said, whereas kids at that age hadn’t yet developed those skills. “As teachers,” she added, “we need to learn how to teach.”
They also need to teach how to learn, and why to learn. YU’s Englander recalled a thought experiment shared decades ago by the university’s former president Rabbi Norman Lamm: If you could implant a microchip into your brain that gave you complete knowledge of the Torah, would you ever have to learn? Lamm’s opinion was that learning in fact had primacy over knowledge — that the toil of studying the Torah was not just a means to an end, but a form of worship in and of itself.
“This might be a little bit more of a mystical notion, but from the standpoint of accessing Hashem, it’s only accomplished through learning the text and struggling with it, not being told what the text says by a third party,“ Englander said. The reason he could generally detect when ChatGPT was hallucinating the Talmud, he added, was because he had put in the hours studying it himself.
The post How the next generation of rabbis is preparing for the age of A.I. appeared first on The Forward.
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Belgium Joins South Africa’s Genocide Case Against Israel at UN Court
A general view inside the International Court of Justice (ICJ), at the start of a hearing where South Africa requests new emergency measures over Israel’s operations in Rafah, in The Hague, Netherlands, May 17, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Yves Herman
Belgium officially became the latest country to join South Africa’s genocide case against Israel at the United Nations’ top court on Tuesday, as international pressure mounts on the Jewish state despite a US-backed ceasefire that has so far paused the two-year conflict in the Gaza Strip.
The International Court of Justice (ICJ) announced that Brussels has requested to join the South African case by filing a declaration of intervention, allowing it to participate without being the original plaintiff.
Belgium joins several other countries in the case, including Brazil, Colombia, Ireland, Mexico, Spain, Turkey, Cuba, Libya, Bolivia, the Maldives, Chile, and “Palestine.”
Earlier this year, South Africa vowed to continue its genocide case against Israel despite the ceasefire in Gaza, the most significant effort yet to halt the two-year Middle Eastern conflict.
Speaking before parliament in Cape Town, South African President Cyril Ramaphosa affirmed that the US-backed peace deal “will have no bearing” on the ongoing legal proceedings against the Jewish state.
Ramaphosa promised to continue seeking “justice for the people of Gaza,” while reiterating false accusations that Israel committed genocide under international law during its defensive military campaign against the Palestinian terrorist group Hamas.
Israel has strongly rejected all allegations of genocide, calling South Africa’s case “baseless” and “politically motivated.”
Ramaphosa’s continuing push comes amid ongoing international pressure, with the US, South African political leaders, and the local Jewish community all expressing opposition to his government’s actions, accusing it of pursuing an anti-Israel campaign instead of addressing the country’s own pressing issues.
Since December 2023, South Africa has been pursuing its case at the ICJ accusing Israel of committing “state-led genocide” in its defensive war against Hamas in Gaza.
Israeli leaders have condemned the case as an “obscene exploitation” of the Genocide Convention, noting that the Jewish state is targeting terrorists who use civilians as human shields in its military campaign.
Meanwhile, South Africa’s Jewish community have lambasted the case as “grandstanding” rather than actual concern for those killed in the Middle Eastern conflict.
Last year, the ICJ ruled there was “plausibility” to South Africa’s claims that Palestinians had a right to be protected from genocide.
However, the top UN court did not make a determination on the merits of South Africa’s allegations, which may take years to go through the judicial process, nor did it call for Israel to halt its military campaign.
Instead, the ICJ issued a more general directive that Israel must make sure it prevents acts of genocide. The ruling also called for the release of the hostages kidnapped by Hamas during the terrorist group’s invasion of and massacre across southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023.