Written by Ailsa Dixon

Review by Dominic Corr

Pleasance Courtyard

As the world burns, and finds itself in the grasp of men, it is all too often the women who have ‘seen’ what is coming, as all too often, they were the ones who saw it in the past. Ailsa Dixon brings a haunting clarity to Cassandra, her solo show at the Scottish Storytelling Centre, blending Greek myth, Scottish folklore, and personal narrative into a compelling meditation on prophecy, protest, and survival. Written and performed by Dixon, this is a quiet storm—an elegy for women whose truths were dismissed, whose warnings were ignored, and whose voices were silenced.

The titular Cassandra, cursed by Apollo to speak truths no one would believe, is the mythic anchor of the piece. But Dixon’s storytelling stretches far beyond Troy. She conjures Mary Campbell, who plants an ash tree over her stillborn child and warns of doom should it be cut down. She channels the “Westray storm witch,” who saves sailors from drowning, only to be condemned for her foresight. These women, drawn from fragments of Scottish history and folklore, are stitched into a tapestry of resistance and sorrow.

Dixon’s performance is intimate and immersive, moving fluidly between harp and cello, using music not just as accompaniment but as emotional architecture. The cello, in particular, builds tension and atmosphere, underscoring moments of anguish and revelation with a mournful resonance. Her voice—clear, expressive, and often sung—guides us through time and terrain, from the windswept hills of Edinburgh to the stormy shores of Orkney.

The staging is minimal: a chair, instruments, and Dixon, but the simplicity is deceptive. Through pacing, gesture, and musical interlude, Dixon creates a layered experience, shifting perspectives with ease. The woman from contemporary Edinburgh—dressed in Gore-Tex and sensible shoes—becomes a conduit for ancestral memory, her walk through the city’s hills echoing the journeys of women who came before her. The wind, a recurring motif, carries whispers of warning and wisdom.

What’s striking is Dixon’s ability to weave personal and political threads without didacticism. The show touches on themes of gendered violence, institutional disbelief, and the cost of speaking out, but it does so through story, not sermon. The result is a piece that feels both timeless and timely—a reminder that the silencing of women’s voices is not confined to myth or history.

If there’s a limitation, it’s that the show’s quiet intensity may leave some yearning for a more theatrical crescendo. But Dixon’s restraint is deliberate, and the emotional payoff is all the more powerful for it. The final moments, where music and memory converge, are deeply affecting; Cassandra is a testament to the power of storytelling as protest. Dixon doesn’t just recount the lives of Cassandra, Mary, and Janet—she resurrects them. She offers them space, dignity, and resonance.

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