Any event that manages to unite comedy’s biggest names under one roof is bound to draw headlines. But the Riyadh Comedy Festival, which unfolded from September 26 through October 9, 2025, in Saudi Arabia’s capital, has sparked a firestorm of controversy that extends far beyond the world of punchlines and applause. Organized by the Saudi government as part of its Vision 2030 economic diversification program, the festival boasted a lineup that read like a who’s who of modern stand-up: Dave Chappelle, Kevin Hart, Bill Burr, Louis C.K., Pete Davidson, Aziz Ansari, Whitney Cummings, Andrew Schultz, Jeffrey Ross, and Jessica Kirson, among others. Yet, the event has become less about laughs and more about a fierce debate over free speech, human rights, and the ethics of performing under censorship.
From the outset, the festival was positioned as a global spectacle. Turki Al-Sheikh, chairman of the Saudi General Entertainment Authority, announced in July 2025 that it would be the world’s largest comedy event. Shows took place nightly at Boulevard City, with tickets starting at SAR100 (roughly $27), and more than 50 A-list comedians graced multiple stages over 14 days. The financial incentives were eye-popping—performers were reportedly paid in the six- and seven-figure range, with some, like Tim Dillon, offered $375,000 for a single show, and others allegedly receiving up to $1.6 million per appearance, according to The Hollywood Reporter and Bloomberg.
Yet, as the laughter echoed through Riyadh’s entertainment district, a chorus of criticism grew louder. The timing was impossible to ignore: the festival coincided with the seventh anniversary of journalist Jamal Khashoggi’s murder on October 2, 2018, and came just months after the execution of journalist Turki al-Jasser on June 14, 2025. Human Rights Watch issued a statement on September 23, 2025, accusing Saudi Arabia of using the festival to whitewash its human rights abuses. The organization pointedly noted the kingdom’s history of silencing dissent, including the killing of Khashoggi and al-Jasser, and labeled the festival a distraction from these ongoing concerns.
The backlash was not limited to advocacy groups. Within the comedy community itself, the decision by so many prominent comedians—many of whom have built their reputations railing against censorship and defending free speech—to perform in one of the world’s most repressive regimes was met with disbelief and anger. Marc Maron and David Cross were among the most vocal critics. Cross, in a scathing open letter, called the participating comedians “disgusting” and accused them of “performing for blood money.” Zach Woods took to social media with a satirical video mocking those who accepted the lucrative gig. Critics repeatedly pointed out the hypocrisy: comedians who have decried so-called cancel culture and championed artistic freedom in the U.S. were now entertaining a government notorious for silencing critics—sometimes fatally.
Even the festival’s defenders couldn’t ignore the strict boundaries imposed on performers. Leaked contract terms, shared by comedian Atsuko Okatsuka, revealed explicit bans on jokes about Saudi Arabia, the royal family, religion, and the legal system. Bill Burr described the scene as “mind-blowing” on his podcast, noting, “You can talk about anything—other than a couple of things, which is basically religion and don’t make fun of the royals.” Louis C.K. echoed this, admitting he was told not to joke about “their religion and their government.” For comedians who have long insisted that “the more you say I can’t say something, the more urgent it is for me to say it,” as Dave Chappelle put it in 2022, this was a striking concession.
Chappelle, ever the provocateur, didn’t shy away from the controversy. During his set on September 27, he told the Riyadh crowd, “It’s easier to talk here than it is in America.” The remark, widely circulated and criticized, seemed to ignore the very real restrictions on speech in Saudi Arabia. As Bloomberg pointed out, one might challenge Chappelle to perform a set on Khashoggi or al-Jasser and see how far that supposed ease extends. Pete Davidson, whose father died in the September 11 attacks—a tragedy with alleged Saudi links—was frank about his motivations. As he told podcaster Theo Von, “I just know I get the routing, and then I see the number, and I go, ‘I’ll go.’”
Not everyone in the lineup stood by their decision. Jessica Kirson became the first performer to publicly express regret, apologizing on October 3 and donating her entire festival fee to the Human Rights Campaign. Human Rights Watch, however, confirmed it could not accept similar donations from other performers, underscoring the complexity and sensitivity of the issue. Other comedians, like Shane Gillis and Mike Birbiglia, turned down invitations on principle. Gillis cited the “significant bag” he was offered but refused to participate due to the regime’s record.
The festival’s defenders offered a range of justifications. Some, like Bill Burr, claimed that audiences in Riyadh “craved authentic stand-up comedy” and that the experience was among his top three as a performer. Others argued that America’s own human rights issues made it hypocritical to single out Saudi Arabia. Jim Jefferies, who was ultimately removed from the lineup after controversial podcast comments, asserted that “Saudi Arabia’s human rights record was comparable to the United States.” Some even suggested that cultural exchange could promote positive change, though critics saw this as wishful thinking at best.
Meanwhile, the debate raged on. Several major names, including Shane Gillis, Mike Birbiglia, and Stavros Halkias, declined to participate, citing contract restrictions and personal ethics. The festival closed on October 9, but the controversy has shown no signs of fading. Industry observers told NPR and The Hollywood Reporter that while public outrage may eventually subside as new projects emerge, the reputational damage could linger—especially for comedians who built their careers on the mantle of free speech advocacy.
The Riyadh Comedy Festival, intended as a showcase of global humor and cultural openness, has instead become a flashpoint in the ongoing conversation about the responsibilities of artists, the limits of free expression, and the moral cost of a paycheck. As the dust settles, fans and critics alike are left to wonder: will this episode become a defining moment in comedy’s history, or just another forgotten footnote? For now, the laughter in Riyadh has given way to a far more serious reckoning.
