Those men have had enough oxygen
In the wake of the Epstein files, more than seventy female playwrights have transformed a former insurance building in the City of London into a space of collective witness and creative reckoning. Where media coverage lingered on powerful men and financial settlements, the event called All the Rage insists on returning the center of the story to those who were harmed. It is a reminder that art has long served as the vessel for truths that institutions fail to hold — and that rage, when shaped by craft and solidarity, can become a form of justice.
- The release of the Epstein files reignited public fury, but female playwrights noticed that victims were being erased from their own story in the media frenzy.
- Within days, over seventy writers mobilized — an urgent, collective act of creative defiance assembled at remarkable speed.
- The deliberate exclusion of accused men from the stage is itself a provocation: a refusal to grant perpetrators any further narrative oxygen.
- Performances range from shredded letters to dances on broken glass, channeling personal and political grief into visceral, embodied form.
- The event is landing as both catharsis and cultural signal — a growing insistence that sexual abuse narratives be reframed through survivor voices and female creative authority.
Rebecca Lenkiewicz calls it "seismic rage" — not the kind that fits inside a news cycle, but the kind that demands witnesses. When the Epstein files broke open, she watched the coverage and noticed something infuriating: day after day, the story was about the men, the money, the power. The women at the center kept disappearing into the margins.
So she called other writers. Lucy Kirkwood, Penelope Skinner, Timberlake Wertenbaker, Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti, and more than seventy others answered. Together they took over fifteen rooms of a former insurance building in the City of London — a space built around men and money — and filled it with what Lenkiewicz describes as "female anarchy." The result is All the Rage, an immersive theatrical installation running Thursday through Saturday at Theatre Deli on Leadenhall Street.
The playwrights made one defining choice: the accused men will not appear on stage. "Those men have had enough oxygen," Lenkiewicz said. Instead, every piece — short scripts, poems, installations — centers the women. Lenkiewicz herself wrote a letter to a man from her own past; it will be performed, then shredded before the audience. Penelope Skinner was haunted by a photograph from the files — a powerful man kneeling beside a young woman, her face redacted — and built her response around that image of erasure. Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti drew from a Bollywood scene of a courtesan dancing on broken glass, beauty and pain inseparable.
At the heart of the event is a deliberate act of reframing. "A lot of the language around sexual violence is about shame," Lenkiewicz said, "and we want to shift the shame to the perpetrators." Bhatti described the whole as "a cauldron of creativity" — a night of rage, yes, but also of solidarity, power, and love. Visitors will move through the rooms before gathering for a final collective performance, eighty writers offering their imaginative reckoning with horror.
Rebecca Lenkiewicz was angry. Not the polite, measured kind of anger that fits neatly into a news cycle, but what she calls "seismic rage"—the kind that demands a room, demands witnesses, demands to be heard. So she and more than 70 other female playwrights decided to take over a room. Specifically, 15 rooms of a former insurance building in the City of London, a place built around men and money, and fill it instead with what Lenkiewicz describes as "female anarchy."
The event, called All the Rage, opens Thursday and runs through the weekend. It's an ambitious, rapidly assembled theatrical installation born directly from the Epstein files—the documents that laid bare decades of abuse, the names of powerful men, the stories of victims. But Lenkiewicz noticed something that made her furious: in all the coverage, all the breathless reporting about the scandal, the victims barely registered. Every day was about the men. Every day was about the money. The women at the center of it all seemed to disappear into the margins.
So she called other writers. Lucy Kirkwood came. Penelope Skinner came. Timberlake Wertenbaker came. Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti came. Seventy more followed. Each wrote something—a short script, a text, a poem, an installation. Each piece responds to what the Epstein files revealed: the machinery of power, the way abuse operates, the silence that protects perpetrators. Lenkiewicz herself wrote a poem responding to Virginia Giuffre's memoir, the account of her abuse by Epstein and her accusations against Prince Andrew, who reached a financial settlement with Giuffre in 2022 and has repeatedly denied wrongdoing.
The playwrights made a deliberate choice: the men won't appear on stage. "Those men have had enough oxygen," Lenkiewicz said. Instead, the focus lands entirely on the women—on victims, on survivors, on the voices that were drowned out. Lenkiewicz wrote a letter to a man from her own past, which will be performed and then shredded in front of the audience. "It's like sending something into the world that you have never articulated before," she explained. "Hopefully it feels like a release and quite cathartic."
Penelope Skinner's contribution began with a photograph from the Epstein files—Prince Andrew kneeling beside a young woman lying on her back, her face redacted. "That photo is a very symbolic representation of the faceless woman and the powerful man, looking directly into the camera," Skinner said. It stuck with her. It demanded a response. Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti drew inspiration from a scene in the classic Bollywood film Pakeezah, in which a courtesan dances on broken glass—an image of beauty and pain intertwined, of power and vulnerability.
Lenkiewicz is clear about what she wants to shift. "A lot of the language around sexual violence and rape is about shame, and we want to shift the shame, we want the guilt to be with the perpetrators," she said. The silence that surrounds abuse, the institutional machinery that keeps victims quiet while perpetrators continue—that's what needs to break. "We want to smash it, and we want women and all victims to feel like they have a voice, because to be silenced is just horrific."
Visitors will move through the office space, encountering performances and installations in different rooms, before gathering for a final collective performance. Bhatti described it as "a cauldron of creativity." She expects "a night that will be about rage, but will also be about power and connection and solidarity and love and freedom." Eighty female writers, she said, offering their imaginative responses to horror. All the Rage runs from Thursday through Saturday at Theatre Deli on Leadenhall Street in London.
Citas Notables
A lot of the language around sexual violence and rape is about shame, and we want to shift the shame, we want the guilt to be with the perpetrators.— Rebecca Lenkiewicz, organizer
Those men have had enough oxygen.— Rebecca Lenkiewicz, on why accused men won't be portrayed on stage
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did Lenkiewicz feel the need to create this event specifically? What was missing from the existing coverage?
The Epstein files dominated the news cycle, but the focus kept landing on the men—their names, their money, their power. The victims became almost incidental. She wanted to invert that entirely, to make the women the center, not the periphery.
And the choice not to portray the accused men on stage—that seems deliberate. Why exclude them?
Exactly. They've had all the oxygen already. Every headline, every investigation, every photograph. The point here is to stop giving them space and instead create space for the voices that were silenced or sidelined.
Penelope Skinner mentioned a specific photograph that haunted her. What was it about that image?
A photograph of Prince Andrew kneeling beside a young woman lying down, her face redacted. It crystallized something for Skinner—the facelessness of the victim, the directness of the powerful man's gaze. It's a visual metaphor for the entire dynamic.
And Lenkiewicz is writing a letter to a man from her own past, which will be performed and then shredded. That's quite visceral.
It is. She describes it as cathartic—articulating something you've never said aloud, having it witnessed, and then literally releasing it. There's something about that ritual that matters.
Do you think the other playwrights have similar personal connections to these themes?
Skinner said probably every single writer involved has some personal experience relevant to what they're exploring. That's not coincidental. This isn't abstract anger. It's rooted in lived experience.
What's the hope here? What does Lenkiewicz want to happen?
She wants to shift where the shame lands. Right now, victims carry it. She wants perpetrators to carry it instead. And she wants women to feel they have a voice, because silence is what allows abuse to continue.