Eve Ensler’s famous play – based on interviews with hundreds of women about their vaginas - has become a worldwide phenomenon. Since the play opened in 1996, everyone from film stars like Calista Flockhart to teenage drama students have been queuing up to publically reclaim their “cunts.” 

The show is somewhere between a seventies’ feminist rally and a stand-up comedy set. It combines the intimate gossip of girlfriends with the private and often poignant internal musings of individual vagina-owners.

The play sees a series of women from the around the world take to the stage to talk about their vaginas. Negative experiences by far out way the positive, and among the most memorable speakers are a Bosnian rape victim and a 72-year old New Yorker who has spent a lifetime avoiding her “down there”.

Ensler interviewed a cross-section of women; women of different races, classes and religions, everyone from 6 year-olds to pensioners. In this V-day production, the cast were all of a similar age, and most shared the same accent (the one you'd expect to hear at an Oxford College) and so the sense of diversity among the monologues - so strong in the book - was somewhat diluted.

However, the actors can hardly be blamed for their demographic and the cast and crew did an admirable job with a challenging piece that covers a staggering number of themes. Amelia Sparling, Charlie Goodman and Bria Thomas are to be congratulated for particularly strong performances.

There were a couple of stumbles over lines, and I felt the between-monologue narration could have been handled more fluently – the girls took turns to read aloud from prompt cards – but there were some interesting original touches in the production, including a compelling closing scene.

Despite the minimal set and absence of props (save the occasional chair) I was struck by the production’s glamour. The script pays lip-service to celebrating the clammy, smelly, unshaven reality of womanhood, but did so from behind a gloss of soft lighting, silk scarves and high heels that wouldn’t look out of place in an advert for Venus lady-shave.

But perhaps there is more gaping irony about this play.  Having women think of themselves in terms of their vaginas is an interesting idea – and it certainly sensed the empowering potential the first time I encountered this play six years ago. Yet, revisiting the Vagina Monologues, when the shock-value has worn off, I was left with a nagging sense that describing women in terms of their vaginas is precisely what 50 years of feminism has struggled to resist.