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 literary titan. But here’s the twist: they’re not debating theory in a stuffy seminar room; they’re sharing sherry in a liminal space that feels neither like heaven nor hell. It’s a setup that’s as intriguing as it is unsettling, and it immediately raises a deeper question: What does it mean to be remembered, especially for women whose contributions have been systematically erased?
Personally, I think this play is less about the afterlife and more about the afterlife of ideas. Astell, whose 17th-century treatise A Serious Proposal to the Ladies argued for women’s education, is depicted here with knitting needles—a detail that I find especially interesting. It’s as if the play is asking: Can a woman be both a revolutionary thinker and a knitter? Why do we insist on reducing complex figures to stereotypes? Astell’s anxiety in the play mirrors the real-world struggle of feminist pioneers who fought for recognition in a patriarchal society. What many people don’t realize is that her work laid the groundwork for later movements, yet she remains a footnote in history.
Virginia Woolf, on the other hand, is portrayed as free-roaming, her place in the canon secure. But even she isn’t immune to the play’s critique. The contrast between these two women—one shackled to obscurity, the other celebrated—highlights the uneven progress of feminism. From my perspective, this dynamic is a microcosm of the broader feminist struggle: some voices are amplified, while others are silenced. What this really suggests is that the fight for equality isn’t just about breaking barriers; it’s about ensuring that no one is left behind.
One thing that immediately stands out is the play’s use of humor. Stephenson’s wit keeps the production light, but beneath the banter lies a sharp commentary on patriarchy. The women’s shared rejection of domineering men feels both timeless and urgent. If you take a step back and think about it, the play is essentially a conversation across centuries, a reminder that the battles Astell fought in the 17th century are still being waged today. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it connects the personal to the political: their love of sherry becomes a symbol of defiance, a small act of rebellion in a world that seeks to control them.
However, the play’s pacing is its Achilles’ heel. While the conversational tone is engaging, it lacks a sense of urgency. The direction of travel feels slow, almost meandering. In my opinion, this is where the production falters—it’s more of a thoughtful chat than a dramatic journey. But perhaps that’s the point. Feminism, after all, is often about the quiet moments of connection, the shared laughter, and the collective realization that we’re not alone.
What this play does best is invite us to reflect on the sacrifices of feminist pioneers. Astell and Woolf may be separated by centuries, but their struggles are eerily similar. Stephenson isn’t just comparing notes; she’s weaving a tapestry of resilience, wit, and resistance. Personally, I think this is where the play shines—in its ability to make us question who gets to write history and whose stories are left untold.
In the end, Astell and Woolf is more than a play; it’s a call to action. It reminds us that the fight for equality is ongoing, and that the voices of the past still have lessons to teach us. What many people don’t realize is that feminism isn’t just about breaking glass ceilings; it’s about ensuring that no one is forgotten in the process. And as I sat there, watching these two women share a sherry, I couldn’t help but think: Maybe the afterlife isn’t about oblivion. Maybe it’s about finding each other.
