The first Riyadh Comedy Festival, which opened its doors in the Saudi capital on September 26, 2025, and ran through October 9, has become a lightning rod for debate, exposing the deep and sometimes uncomfortable intersection of entertainment, economics, and ethics in the kingdom’s ongoing transformation. Marketed as the world’s largest comedy festival, the event drew international headliners like Dave Chappelle, Bill Burr, Jimmy Carr, Omid Djalili, Pete Davidson, Kevin Hart, Louis CK, and Jack Whitehall. But while the festival brought laughter to thousands, it also ignited a fierce backlash over what was said on stage—and, perhaps more importantly, what wasn’t.
Attendees and fans were quick to notice a bold new tone in Riyadh’s entertainment scene. According to BBC News, many were surprised to hear comedians deliver "profane content"—including explicit sexual jokes and gags about wives, the niqab, and even jokes about gay and transgender people. One attendee recounted that Bill Burr’s opening act included a “ten-minute segment all about sex,” an unprecedented spectacle for a city where such topics are typically taboo. Omid Djalili, meanwhile, poked fun at cultural issues like women driving. Female audience members were seen laughing, a sight that, for some, underscored a generational divide between those embracing change and those wary of it.
Yet, in a country where homosexuality and gender expression remain illegal—punishable, according to the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association, by death—the inclusion of jokes about gay and trans people raised eyebrows. Dave Chappelle, who has faced criticism in the past for his material on transgender issues, reportedly made numerous such jokes during his performance. As BBC News reported, one attendee said, “Chappelle made lots of jokes about transgender people.”
Still, perhaps the most glaring silence was on the topic of Saudi Arabia’s own political and human rights landscape. According to BBC News, not a single comedian addressed the kingdom’s government or its controversial human rights record, either on stage or on social media. This was no accident. Leaked contracts, widely circulated online, allegedly barred performers from making fun of religion or the Saudi royal family. Joey Shea, a Saudi Arabia researcher at Human Rights Watch, told BBC News, “So far I’ve not seen one of the comedians raise these issues, not just on stage but on social media or anywhere. It’s very disappointing.”
The festival’s timing only heightened the sense of unease. It coincided with the seventh anniversary of the assassination of journalist Jamal Khashoggi, which a U.S. intelligence report concluded was approved by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. Comedian Marc Maron, performing abroad, referenced the killing and criticized his colleagues for accepting Saudi money. The kingdom’s record of jailing critics for decades-long sentences, torturing detainees, and banning discussion of the royal family or religion was not lost on rights groups. Human Rights Watch accused the event of “whitewashing” Saudi repression, warning that dissidents, journalists, and activists remain imprisoned.
In June 2025, the Saudi regime executed journalist Turki al-Jasser for “high treason,” reportedly linked to posts he authored on a blog and in a newspaper. Saudi Arabia, as reported by BBC News, carries out most executions by beheading with swords, and has seen a reported rise in executions for non-lethal and drug-related offenses. Human Rights Watch urged festival participants to use their platform to speak up on issues like free speech and human rights, but so far, those calls have largely gone unheeded.
Some comedians did take a stand—albeit after the fact. Jessica Kirson apologized for participating in the festival and pledged to donate her fee to human rights causes. Shane Gillis and Atsuko Okatsuka turned down invitations to perform, citing their conscience. Others, like Tim Dillon, were pulled from the lineup after making jokes about slavery in Saudi Arabia. Dillon claimed he was offered $315,000 for a single show and that more famous colleagues were paid upwards of $1.6 million. “I didn’t want to do it either,” comedian Chris Distefano admitted on the Stavros Halkias podcast, “And then [Distefano’s wife] was like ‘You’re going to take that f***ing money.’” Pete Davidson, for his part, told podcaster Theo Von that he agreed to perform after seeing the amount he was being paid. Jim Jefferies and Chris Distefano both cited the high paychecks as a major factor in their decisions.
Not all reactions were so pragmatic. Comic David Cross, who was not invited to perform, expressed his disgust in a statement on Instagram: “I am disgusted, and deeply disappointed in this whole gross thing. That people I admire, with unarguable talent, would condone this totalitarian fiefdom for…what, a fourth house? A boat? More sneakers?”
Onstage, the comedians themselves seemed to sense the tension. Chappelle reportedly told an audience of around 6,000 people that it was “easier to talk here than it is in America.” Bill Burr, meanwhile, defended his participation, saying Saudi audiences “just wanted to laugh.” Some supporters within the kingdom echoed this sentiment, arguing that the festival brought much-needed joy to young Saudis eager for change. “Every Saudi who attends a show like this will learn something,” one local told 5Pillars.
But critics remained unconvinced. “It is extraordinary to see comedians defend free speech at home while ignoring those silenced in Saudi jails,” one campaigner told 5Pillars. Human Rights Watch described the festival as Saudi Arabia’s latest attempt to “deflect attention from its brutal repression of free speech and other pervasive human rights violations.”
The Riyadh Comedy Festival is just one piece of a much broader puzzle. It forms part of Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman’s Vision 2030 reforms, an ambitious plan to diversify the Saudi economy and soften its global image. Billions have been invested in sports, gaming, and entertainment, from the purchase of Newcastle United to securing hosting rights for the 2034 FIFA World Cup. These initiatives, supporters say, are about more than just image—they represent a genuine attempt to open up Saudi society and create new opportunities for its youth.
Yet, as the laughter fades and the lights dim on Riyadh’s comedy stages, the festival leaves behind a trail of uncomfortable questions. Can glitzy entertainment spectacles truly mask ongoing injustice? Or are they merely a distraction, a way to “whitewash” repression while the real issues remain unaddressed? For now, the answer depends on who you ask—and perhaps, on which side of the stage you’re standing.
