There is not much new about having a laugh at feminism – or indeed at almost any serious -ism in the crowded canon of earnest social comment. This versatile and prolific playwright from Oz rounds up aspects of the great debate – who is to blame for what and what happens after the ‘wisdom’ – spitting out her tongue-in-cheek findings a with brisk wit that has brought major success not only on her home ground but also in Los Angeles and the West End.

So, swinging sophistication is in the air and Ross Gumbley’s comedic instinct is well exercised.

Set in the indulgent world of Margot Mason, acknowledged high priestess of feminist theory , author of such illuminating texts as ‘Madame Ovary’ and ‘The Cerebral Vagina’, the action stems from a familiar imperative: the publisher is on her trail for an overdue money spinner. Then come the surprises. Indeed, wonderful entry lines are a feature of the cavalcade of characters arriving in her country retreat, all with post post feminist theories of their own to contribute.

First up and catalyst for the trail of events is Molly Rivers, student, would-be writer, armed, and desperate for revenge, since neither she nor her mother has had much joy from Mason’s advice.

There follows an entertaining succession of individuals: a ‘loser’ married daughter, exhausted from the motherhood path to fulfilment; her bemused husband; the taxi driver with his own tale of marital woe; and finally the publisher, himself in for a startling revelation.

Thus are introduced multiple perspectives, reactions and verbal sparks; an entertaining whirl through human behaviour rather than feminist enlightenment.

The play builds slowly from a tenuous start in spite of Molly’s intrusion. Like the theory itself, we wonder if it is really going anywhere. Once the stage fills up, the push and pull of words and motives sparks action and ideas into a satisfying conflagration. The best dig is reserved for the professional writer, unable to make the simplest words work.

Since ideas and attitudes are at the heart of the dynamics here, actors are called upon to flesh out some tricky material into convincing stage life. All are capable and colourful, with especially engaging performances from Eilish Moran as the wretched daughter Tessa and Tom Trevella as the taxi driver.

Jude Gibson as Margot Mason (‘Madam Wordplay’) and Elsie Edgerton-Till as Molly set each other off nicely. Michael Lee Porter, an impeccable understudy for Alistair Browning, makes a splendidly bemused husband (Bryan) and Martin Howells, as publisher Theo, jollies things happily along in his turn.

The creative team is also strong. David Thornley’s abstracted set keeps us firmly in the realm of ideas. Towers of book shapes suggest mountains of ideas – none of them providing answers to the human problems encountered – and Bronwyn Corbett’s costume work provides sound clues to characters, even before their roles are developed. 

As Margot Mason herself discovered, anything to do with gender is perennially hot market material but it is probably fair to say that for most patrons feminist debate per se has lost its immediacy. Here, it serves as a useful springboard to observe how fragile our convictions really are, how absurdly self deluded we can be and how uncertain our certainties. You have to laugh.
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