I'm a playwright and run an all-female theatre company, so I'm pretty much the target audience for the book. The women included in the book are endlessly fascinating and inspiring, but this book does not do them justice, and reads more like a high school essay.
Much of the book is taken up by repeatedly recounting the plots of the various books and plays discussed. The literary criticism is not very in depth, and I found parts of it problematic or poorly researched. A chapter on sex claims that women in the sexual revolution of the 1960s didn't have birth control (when the entire reason the sexual revolution happened was due to the invention of the birth control pill), and says of the 1960s, "the concept of sexual consent was still half a century away." Um, half a century on from the 1960s is 2010. Does this author really believe the concept of consent didn't exist until TWO THOUSAND AND TEN????
There's a chapter on race, and I understand that a book where each chapter is dedicated to a social issue would look weird if it didn't include race, but the fundamental problem here is that all the writers chosen are white, and only two of them wrote included a non-white character. This chapter is very short and perfunctory. The chapter on race is essentially some very basic information on racial tensions in the 1960s followed by a bunch of super racist quotes from the writers the book exists to champion, handwaved with "but these writers were just reflecting the attitudes of the era."
This book has a real problem with class bias. Despite repeatedly insisting that all these female writers basically felt and suffered the same despite the huge disparity in background and opportunity, Brayfield is hugely critical and dismissive of the working class writers listed, and ragingly obsequious towards the posh ones. The difference in attitude is startling.
The first writer profiled is Shelagh Delaney, and Brayfield pretty much flat out calls her a liar (by making much of the fact that despite the now-famous "a fortnight ago I had no idea theatre existed" letter 19yr old Delaney wrote to Joan Littlewood, she had in fact visited a local theatre when she was 16); undermines her writing talent; implies that she only included teen sex, illegitimate pregnancy and gay characters in a cynical and manipulative attempt to be trendy and curry scandal; claims she changed the spelling of her name from Sheila to Shelagh to try to capitalise on and bandwagon-jump the success of other Irish writers; and refers to her as "an astute self-mythologist" who was only pretending to be a naïve and unworldly girl who happened to have a preternatural talent for writing. Quite a hatchet job on a working class teenager who had "never been more than a few miles from Salford."
By contrast Brayfield goes out of her way to defend Nell Dunn, the aristocratic daughter of one of the wealthiest men in England, who chose to leave the mansion her father had gifted her to move to a slum ("Alexa play Pulp's 'Common People'"), where she became famous by publishing biographical short stories based on the personal traumas of her impoverished neighbours. There are obvious ethical implications of such blatant cultural appropriation, and a book that's supposed to be a work of literary criticism should at least pay lip service to discourse around authenticity, appropriation, poverty porn, and who gets to tell their stories. Yet this book does the opposite, defending Dunn at every turn and acting like the existing of the discourse is an attack. Brayfield introduces Dunn with the baffling claim that the fact she isn't smiling in some society photo shows she was uncomfortable with her wealth and privilege; doesn't question Dunn's claim that she moved from mansion to slum purely out of "loneliness"; and claims the allegations that Dunn exploited her neighbours by appropriating their stories is sheer sexism.
Brayfield gets angry and defensive over mild criticism of Dunn's work, attacking critics who described Dunn's writing as "voyeuristic" and "like a camera" as sexist dinosaurs lacking all imagination. Yet when she describes the deeply personal hate campaign against Delaney, sparked by her admission that she failed the 11+ (a "trashing" that saw her accused of not even writing her own plays), it's with a much more dispassionate tone, and she dismissively refers to Delaney as "giving as good as she got" and "well aware of the process" (ie that scandal sells papers - and theatre tickets), implying that Delaney didn't really suffer from being the victim of a classist and sexist public hate campaign.
When a working class teenager writes about the deprivation around her, it's a cynical and savvy attempt to create scandal, and hate campaigns aren't a big deal because she's gobby enough to argue back. When a wealthy aristo does the same thing (about deprivation she intentionally sought out as writing fodde... sorry "a cure for loneliness" that by sheer absolute coincidence and good luck gave her extremely profitable writing fodder), well that's just good writing and how dare anyone criticise her work!!
I googled the author of this book after writing this, and quelle surprise, she went to one of the most expensive public schools in the country.