What if the afterlife was a waiting room for forgotten women? That’s the premise of Shelagh Stephenson’s Astell and Woolf, a play that pairs two feminist icons across centuries—Mary Astell, often dubbed England’s first feminist, and Virginia Woolf, the modernist literary titan. But here’s the twist: they’re not debating theory in a stuffy seminar; they’re sharing sherry in a liminal space, somewhere between oblivion and memory. Personally, I think this setup is genius. It’s not just a clever gimmick; it forces us to confront how history remembers (or erases) women who challenge the status quo.
One thing that immediately stands out is the contrast between Astell and Woolf. Astell, played with starchy formality by Phillippa Wilson, is tethered to a rope, symbolizing her precarious place in history. Woolf, portrayed with lithe expansiveness by Tessa Parr, roams freely, her legacy secure. What this really suggests is that even in the afterlife, the patriarchy’s grip lingers. Astell’s struggle to be remembered feels painfully relevant in an era where women’s contributions are still often footnotes.
What many people don’t realize is that Astell’s A Serious Proposal to the Ladies was revolutionary for its time, advocating for women’s education in 1694. Yet, she’s largely forgotten today. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about her—it’s about how many pioneering women are erased from the narrative. Stephenson’s play isn’t just a conversation between two women; it’s a mirror held up to society’s selective memory.
The play’s humor is its saving grace. The banter between Astell and Woolf is brisk, silly, and impassioned, but it lacks a sense of urgency. From my perspective, this is both a strength and a weakness. The conversational tone makes the ideas accessible, but it risks diluting the gravity of their struggles. Still, the wit keeps the production lively, and the sherry-fueled camaraderie is a delightful touch.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Stephenson uses the afterlife as a metaphor for the battles feminists still face. The panelled walls of Amy Watts’s set tapering into oblivion? That’s not just clever staging—it’s a visual reminder of how easily women’s stories can vanish. In my opinion, this is where the play shines: it’s not just about Astell and Woolf; it’s about every woman who’s been silenced, overlooked, or forgotten.
If you’re expecting high drama, this isn’t it. The play’s pleasures are conversational, not dramatic. But that’s okay. Sometimes, the most powerful statements are made in quiet moments. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the play avoids heavy-handed moralizing. Instead, it invites us to reflect on progress—and how much further we have to go.
This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to be remembered? Astell’s knitting needles and Woolf’s sherry aren’t just props; they’re symbols of the mundane and the extraordinary, the domestic and the intellectual. What this really suggests is that feminism isn’t just about grand theories—it’s about the everyday acts of resistance.
In the end, Astell and Woolf is a thoughtful, if slow-paced, exploration of legacy, memory, and the enduring fight for equality. Personally, I left the theater not just with a newfound appreciation for Mary Astell but with a renewed sense of urgency. Because, as the play reminds us, the battle to be remembered—to be seen—is far from over.
