In a New York theater this winter, audiences are witnessing a surreal clash that blends earnest debate with absurd theatrics, all drawn from a forgotten hour of 1993 C-SPAN footage. The new play Kramer/Fauci, directed by Daniel Fish and now running off-Broadway, recreates a heated exchange between AIDS activist Larry Kramer and Dr. Anthony Fauci, the government's top AIDS researcher at the time, over the slow pace of treatments for the disease Kramer called a "plague." But the production adds unexpected flourishes: a C-SPAN caller in a yellow inflatable chicken suit and a stage machine that engulfs Kramer in a massive foam berg, symbolizing the overwhelming frustration of the era.
According to a review in The Atlantic, the script is lifted verbatim from the original broadcast, including every "um" and pause, making the play a faithful yet inventive tribute to a pivotal moment in American public discourse. The 1993 debate, aired on the unflashy public affairs network, captured Kramer railing against bureaucratic delays in AIDS research while Fauci defended the measured approach of federal science. The two men, though aligned on the crisis's urgency, spoke from different worlds—Kramer's fueled by personal loss and outrage, Fauci's by institutional caution.
The production's surreal elements, absent from the real footage, serve to highlight what the review describes as a stark contrast between genuine engagement and today's spectacle-driven politics. As the foam slowly subsumes actor Thomas Jay Ryan's portrayal of Kramer, the audience is reminded of the activist's desperation amid dying friends and stalled progress. The chicken-suited caller interrupts the debate, injecting a carnival-like absurdity that underscores how modern viewers might dismiss respectful dialogue as boring compared to viral outrage.
Daniel Fish, known for his 2019 Broadway revival of Oklahoma!, which reimagined the classic musical as a critique of American intolerance, brings a similar lens to this material. The Atlantic piece notes that Fish views the Kramer-Fauci exchange as a "great American text," akin to foundational documents, exemplifying productive disagreement that has propelled the nation's progress. In the play, Kramer, played by Ryan, delivers a poignant line late in the performance: "I think I probably have a more complicated relationship with Tony than with anybody in my entire life." He continues, describing Fauci as "an ordinary man who was asked to play God and he is being punished because he cannot be God. And that is a terrible situation to be in to be the lightning rod for all of us."
This moment, the review explains, carries emotional weight for contemporary audiences, offering a rare glimpse of compassion amid conflict. Kramer and Fauci's real-life relationship had evolved from early antagonism—Kramer once called Fauci a "murderer" and "incompetent idiot" in the press—to mutual respect by 1993. They had known each other for years, with Kramer acknowledging the impossible burdens Fauci faced as the face of the government's AIDS response.
The play's themes tap into a long American tradition of debate as both civic duty and entertainment. Historians often point to the 1858 Senate campaign debates between Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas in Illinois, which drew crowds of up to 10,000 people. Those seven encounters, held in towns like Ottawa, Freeport, and Alton, were as much about rhetorical performance as policy, setting a model still taught in high schools today. According to the Atlantic review, these debates educated audiences on issues like slavery while showcasing oratorical skill, blending statecraft with showmanship.
Playwrights have long mined this tradition for drama. Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee's Inherit the Wind (1955), a staple in American schools, dramatizes the 1925 Scopes "Monkey" Trial as a courtroom battle over evolution, pitting characters based on Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan against each other. Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton (2015) transformed Founding Fathers' arguments into rap battles, bringing historical debates to life for modern Broadway crowds. These works, the review argues, reflect how debate has shaped U.S. culture at the nexus of democracy and spectacle.
Yet, as American political discourse has grown more combative, theater has begun questioning this legacy. The Atlantic draws parallels to James Graham's 2021 play Best of Enemies, which recreates the 1968 televised debates between conservative William F. Buckley Jr. and liberal Gore Vidal on ABC News. Those encounters, part of the Republican National Convention coverage, marked a shift toward treating debates as "blood sports," according to the play's thesis. One line from Best of Enemies captures the era's appeal: "People like blood sports."
The Buckley-Vidal clashes escalated dramatically, culminating in Buckley shouting at Vidal, "Now listen, you queer, stop calling me a crypto-Nazi." This moment, the review notes, helped popularize vicious personal attacks over substantive exchange, a template echoed in later events like Donald Trump's 2016 debate remark calling Hillary Clinton a "nasty woman." Buckley, a frequent debater, had earlier faced off against James Baldwin in a 1965 Cambridge Union debate on race in America, which has seen recent stage revivals. The Atlantic suggests that if social media existed then, such slurs would have gone viral, much like today's online outrage.
In contrast, Kramer and Fauci's 1993 discussion aired on C-SPAN, a network focused on unvarnished proceedings rather than drama. While network TV pivoted to conflict for ratings—ABC's 1968 broadcasts drew huge audiences—the C-SPAN exchange emphasized agreement on AIDS as a national priority, even as they clashed over pace. Kramer demanded "warp speed" progress, echoing modern phrases, while Fauci advocated for rigorous science. A moderator in Best of Enemies reflects on similar heated moments: "Thank you very much for the discussion... There was a little more heat, and a little less light, than usual."
The Atlantic review posits that Kramer/Fauci challenges the notion that only explosive confrontations entertain. By staging the debate with minimal sets—a simple table and chairs, per production notes—and adding the chicken suit as a meta-commentary, Fish invites viewers to reject cynical distractions. Kramer ignores the suited intruder, staying focused, much as the play urges audiences to prioritize substance over spectacle.
This approach aligns with Fish's broader oeuvre. His Oklahoma! revival darkened Rodgers and Hammerstein's optimistic tale into an exploration of myth-making and prejudice, earning Tony Awards in 2019. Similarly, Kramer/Fauci reframes a niche historical artifact into a timely meditation on discourse. The play premiered in early 2026 at a small Manhattan venue, with tickets selling out quickly amid interest in Fauci's post-pandemic profile and Kramer's legacy—he died in 2020 at age 84, after decades of activism.
Critics have praised the production's intimacy, with Ryan's Kramer embodying raw fury tempered by insight. The foam berg, activated midway, visually represents the "plague"'s toll, slowly covering the stage in white mounds. Fauci, portrayed by an actor delivering the doctor's precise, diplomatic responses, stands as a foil, highlighting the value of measured voices in crisis.
Broader implications ripple into today's polarized climate. As political debates increasingly mimic reality TV—think the 2024 presidential primaries' soundbite wars—the play revives Lincoln-Douglas ideals of enlightenment through argument. The Atlantic argues that Kramer and Fauci's model proves thoughtful friction can captivate without toxicity, offering hope that America might reclaim debate's democratic roots.
Looking ahead, Kramer/Fauci may tour or stream, following Best of Enemies' path via the UK's National Theatre at Home. With Fish attached to adapt more "American texts," audiences can expect continued scrutiny of the nation's rhetorical traditions. In an era of echo chambers, the play reminds that real progress often emerges from uncomfortable, respectful clashes—not carnival tricks.