Are women any better off now than they were a century ago? No one is saying life is perfect. But I would have thought that there are sexual, economic, educational possibilities undreamt of in the early 1900s. Against that Charlotte Jones's play, first seen at the Bush last year, somewhat conservatively argues that women's lives are still defined by masculine needs and desires.
Philosophically, her play is reactionary; formally, however, it is extremely bright and inventive. In common with other women writers such as Caryl Churchill and Kate Atkinson, Jones juxtaposes different periods. In the present we see Alex, a 36-year-old cartographer, coping with an Alzheimer's-afflicted mother, a difficult flatmate and a selfish, married lover. Meanwhile, in 1908 Yorkshire, Alex's ancestors have a similarly strenuous time: the simple-minded Clara and the oppressed Livvy live with their stonily severe Gramma, and are seduced by an itinerant photographer.
Doubling of the roles reinforces the parallels between past and present. Kerry Fox's map-making Alex admittedly enjoys a careerist freedom denied her forbears. But Marcia Warren and Rosie Cavaliero appear in both eras as women variously denied fulfilment and the same two male actors, Jason Hughes and Ivan Kaye, embody ineffectual romanticism and heartless seduction. Jones seems to be saying that women today face greater choices but are still the victims of masculine weakness or egotism: it may have a grain of truth but it accords women a passivity and helplessness which I don't encounter.
The odd thing is that the determinist message conceals an extremely sparky and engaging style. Alex's relationship with her querulous, bedridden mum, who is a closet tapdancer, is beautifully observed. Her plumply neurotic flatmate, Clootie, who believes she only gets work as a waitress because she makes people feel better about ordering pudding, is richly funny. And Jones reveals a gift for the bizarre that enables her to show a fake-Italian photographer at a Yorkshire fair seducing Livvy by doing a bird of paradise fantasy dance.
Anna Mackmin's production makes the transition from the Bush with commendable ease. Kerry Fox endows the apprehensive Alex with the right mix of outer toughness and inner insecurity. Marcia Warren switches brilliantly between her basilisk mother and the vinegary Yorkshire Gramma. And Rosie Cavaliero is a real find as the retarded Clara and the contemporary Clootie.
Undeniably Jones possesses a quirkily original theatrical talent. But I would find her play even more enjoyable if it offered a less fatalistic view of women as perennial victims of male inconstancy.
This review appeared in later editions of yesterday's paper.
