Grad Acting Chair Carl Cofield on 'Twelfth Night' and the Makings of His Creative Life

As both theatre-maker and educator, Carl Cofield finds harmony in opposites: the past and the present, the old and the new, the mentor and the student. When Twelfth Night comes to NYU Skirball February 11, a play he directed for Classical Theatre of Harlem (CTH) where he also serves as Associate Artistic Director, those disparate forces will meet head on.

Cofield, who serves as chair of the Grad Acting department at NYU Tisch, is an artist whose creative contours reveal a life dedicated to theatre. His early exploits as a child actor paved the way for a blossoming acting career across television, film, and the stage, including work seen at The Manhattan Theater Club, Berkeley Rep, Arena Stage, and The Shakespeare Theatre, among many others. But it was the community impact he found on the regional theatre circuit that led Cofield to this fully realized version of himself as director. For CTH alone, he has directed The Bacchae (New York Times Critics Pick), Antigone, Macbeth, The Tempest, Dutchman, and Twelfth Night, which debuted last summer and earned Cofield an Audelco Award.

Cofield’s Twelfth Night is billed as an afrofuturistic update to Shakespeare’s romantic comedy anchored by a majority Black artistic team and a dazzling turn from 2022 Tony nominee Kara Young. Prior to its two-week run at NYU Skirball (Feb. 11-19), and to kick off Black History Month in February, we checked in with Professor Cofield for a conversation that explores how the makings of his artistic life inform a fuller creative vision, and how representation and reimagination are bolstering theatre across the country.

What is your earliest recollection of being compelled to create—what did that look like for you?

Carl Cofield: I’m a second generation theatre person. My uncle was in the theatre at the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre in Jupiter, Florida. This is when Burt Reynolds had a theatre and would invite his film and television buddies down who wanted to do stage work. So, for me at an early age, probably about four, I really saw the power that theatre had. Unlike cinema, unlike TV, it was a communal experience and something that had a ritual to it. At that time I could only liken it to a religious ceremony. It made a lasting impression on my psyche—the magnificent power of theatre. I made a commitment right then: I knew I was going to spend my life in that medium.

Your initial artistic undertakings were as an actor, which began early in your childhood. On your journey to directing, what led you toward this fully realized version of yourself as a theatre artist?

There were two pivotal moments. I was very fortunate to create my lifestyle through acting. I started as a child actor, but it was theatre that was important to me. One of the big moments was my experience working at regional theaters. I had the privilege of working at Arena Stage in Washington, D.C., at Berkeley Rep in California, where I really got to see the art in conversation with communities. It wasn’t just a transactional venture. These theaters were creating work that amplified the voices and the conversations that they wanted to have with their community. That left a lasting impression on me.

And then, a more esoteric version of that is the journey and what it means to pass along this craft from actor to actor or director to director. Now I have the good fortune of being at NYU and helping the next generation of creatives come along. That’s something that I don’t take lightly.

You’ve spoken about your inclination to make work that would appeal to a younger version of yourself. How does working with the next generation of creators at Tisch influence your artistic vision?

It’s this ebb and flow that energizes me. Whenever I’m around young people or younger artists in a rehearsal room there is an energy that is palpable. And hopefully that keeps me on my toes and not settling for the default answers, but really pushing and probing and investigating. I really have to interrogate why I believe what I believe. It’s so valuable that you don’t become rigid in your approach; it [should be] flexible and malleable. 

Growing up, who were some of the artists who influenced you and reflected your reality and lived experience?

I had the great privilege of coming along during the golden age of hip hop. When I look back and say who is most seminal, I consider people like Public Enemy, whose mission statement aligned much with mine. [The idea of] edutainment—it’s to educate, but it’s also to entertain, and finding the proper balance is something I’m very interested in. [I’m inspired by ] the beautiful, complex way that Maya Angelou and the poets of the elder generation really spoke to me. The rich and complex words of Toni Morrison, Langston Hughes—those are the ancestors who paved the way for me to be here.

In a more practical way, when I was a kid dreaming about coming to New York, it would be the work of the Negro Ensemble Company, and actors like Howard Rollins Jr. It would be the actors that I had the privilege of working in the regions with—people who are not household names, but have given their art to their community in a way that has changed the trajectory of countless people who have seen them work. It’s the music of Wynton Marsalis, whom I have the biggest artistic crush on. Those are some names that are my guiding north star who continue to be muses on my artistic journey. 

We are seeing strides in representation across the arts, but there are of course gaps that still remain. What is your impression of the state of theatre from the standpoint of representation?

We’re living in a wonderful, chaotic, scary, unknown moment in time. Within that void there are so many wonderful things that are happening. The conversation, for example, around the play Ain’t No Mo’, which featured several Grad Acting alumni, is a wonderful conversation to be having. They’re asking, what is Broadway theatre? And we are turning the norm completely upside down. In that respect the art is doing what it’s supposed to do: stimulate conversation. If you look from a James Baldwin perspective, it’s to disturb the peace with your art. You should be out there making people uncomfortable—telling the truth and shaming the devil.

We are hearing a lot more voices and I think that’s a direct reflection of where we are globally in our reckoning. We are interested and we are curious about stories that fall outside of our spectrum of understanding. Practically, I look at some of what’s on Broadway stages—and not to say Broadway is the only benchmark. But looking at it, somebody could go see Tom Stoppard’s Leopoldstadt; they could go see Aint No Mo’; they could see 1776 in a way they’ve never seen it before; they could come see Twelfth Night, which is definitely not their grandparents’ Shakespeare. And on the flip side, they could go see Fat Ham at the Public Theater, another reimagining of a Shakespeare classic. 

For me the representation is an invitation to expand our creativity. That to me is the important thing. We’re not looking at a naturalistic slice of life. The artist’s job is to present the world as it could be. If people did burst into song, what would that look like?