In the ongoing culture wars, few arenas are as hotly contested as Hollywood. The film industry, long seen as a beacon of progressive ideals, is now, according to comedian and social critic Bill Maher, suffering from a crisis of conscience fueled by identity politics. In a scathing, unreserved critique, Maher accuses “Woke Hollywood” of hypocrisy, double standards, and systematically undermining the very essence of acting: the art of transformation.

Maher’s core argument is simple, yet provocative: Casting should prioritize merit, allowing “the best actor win,” regardless of their personal identity. He argues that the industry has fundamentally lost its way, trading artistic freedom for ideological purity tests and replacing the pursuit of honest storytelling with a commitment to “identity quotas.”

Maher immediately zeros in on what he sees as the baffling inconsistency of the so-called “casting enforcers.” He highlights the controversy surrounding James Franco being cast as Fidel Castro, which prompted actor John Leguizamo to declare publicly, “no more appropriation. Boycott it up. I don’t got a problem with Franco, but he ain’t Latino.”

Maher swiftly demolished this stance by citing Leguizamo’s own professional history, noting his roles as a Venetian, a French little person, and an Italian plumber—none of which align with Leguizamo’s own identity.

The contradiction, Maher suggests, exposes the systemic flaws of the current casting debate. “Why the hell do you think people become actors?” he asks. “Because they want to spend their life not being who they are.” He argues that the term “appropriation” is misleading because, at its root, “that’s what acting is.” The moment the “system tilts in their favor, they call it progress. But the second it doesn’t, suddenly it’s discrimination.” This double standard, Maher contends, stifles creativity and turns the art form into a game of political maneuvering.

The chilling effect of this “casting police” extends beyond public feuds to self-censorship among Hollywood’s elite. Maher points to actors who have felt compelled to apologize for roles that were once considered career-defining and courageous.

The discussion highlights the case of Eddie Redmayne, who won critical praise for playing a transgender woman in The Danish Girl. Yet, Redmayne now calls accepting the role a “mistake.” Maher strongly pushes back on this retraction, arguing that Redmayne’s performance was “extraordinary” and he had “absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

This trend, according to Maher, forces actors to adhere to an “impossible standard of moral perfection.” He identifies a clear double standard: when a minority actor takes on a traditionally white role (such as a black actor playing George Washington in Hamilton), it is celebrated as progress. But when a white actor steps into a minority role, even if the performance is stellar (like Ana de Armas as Marilyn Monroe, despite her Cuban background), it is immediately problematic.

Maher views this as not just an artistic crisis, but an economic one, too. Studios, being businesses, must have the freedom to cast based on who can best embody the role and ensure the investment pays off. He argues that “audiences don’t buy tickets for lectures in identity politics. They show up for powerful stories, real emotion, and honest art.” The current trend is seen as draining the “soul” of creativity by making decisions based on fear rather than fulfillment.

The most profound element of Maher’s critique targets the philosophical impact of the “woke” movement on fundamental liberal values. He argues that this fixation on identity undoes the very essence of liberalism: empathy.

Empathy, Maher reminds his audience, is the act of “putting yourself in someone else’s place.” The current ideology, however, asserts, “don’t even try to put yourself in my shoes cuz you could never know.” This philosophy, he argues, undermines the core function of dramatic art, which is to allow both the actor and the audience to inhabit a life completely different from their own.

He highlights the tragedy of Tom Hanks’ recent statement that he wouldn’t play a gay character in Philadelphia today. This trend, Maher asserts, forces actors to unnecessarily reveal their sexuality and prevents the audience from truly losing themselves in the story. He contrasts this with the magic of actors like Daniel Day-Lewis, whose intensely private life allows for full immersion in his transformative characters, such as Abraham Lincoln.

Maher unequivocally states, “This isn’t progress. It’s regression.”

To illustrate the absurdity, Maher recalls the premise of the 1950s book, Black Like Me, where a white man darkened his skin to understand the racial struggle. While that was once considered an act of profound empathy, Maher contends that the “woke mob” today would instantly condemn it as “blackface,” thereby rejecting the difficult, yet essential, act of seeking to understand another’s experience.

The segment concludes by illustrating the “tragedy” that the standards set by the “woke mob” are ultimately unreachable. The transcript cites the example of Steven Spielberg, who tried to appease critics by casting West Side Story authentically and even digitally re-editing classics. Yet, even this effort failed to satisfy the critics.

The recent casting of Bradley Cooper—a gentile—as Jewish composer Leonard Bernstein is presented as “the new sin in Hollywood.”

Maher’s final message is a desperate plea for sanity in the arts. He argues that Hollywood has “lost the plot,” prioritizing “ideological purity tests” over artistic freedom. He warns that when “creativity becomes hostage to fear, everyone loses.”

The solution, according to the veteran satirist, is a return to basics: casting based purely on talent, not on “appeasing social approval” or checking diversity boxes. Art should be about “emotion, empathy, and truth,” not propaganda. He urges, “let actors act and let art stay free,” before the industry’s fear-driven self-censorship completely extinguishes its creative soul.