Georgie Henley is best known to many as Lucy Pevensie in The Chronicles of Narnia, but she’s long since stepped out of the wardrobe and into a wide-ranging career that spans screen, stage, writing, and activism. Now, she returns to the London stage in The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs, a joyous and provocative queer ensemble comedy by Iman Qureshi. I sat down with Georgie ahead of her 30th birthday to talk about queerness, representation, finding joy in community, and why she still feels so proud of the little girl who led us into Narnia.
What drew you to The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs, and what kind of character is Ana?
I saw it twice at Soho Theatre and completely fell in love with it. When I heard it was coming back, I couldn’t believe it – it still feels so relevant. Ana’s an academic who joins the choir hoping it’ll help her relationship with her partner, Lori. But of course, things don’t go as planned. There’s this slow unravelling between expectation and reality that I think a lot of people will relate to.
She’s complicated – her heart’s in the right place, and she talks a lot about inclusion and community, but her actions don’t always line up. She genuinely wants to do the right thing but sometimes gets it wrong. That contradiction is so human, and it really drew me in. When I first read the script, some of her lines made me wince – I didn’t understand her at first. But the more I explored the character, the more I realised how much of it comes from insecurity. We’ve all reacted out of fear or tried to hold on to someone, and that kind of vulnerability is what hooked me.
This is also my first professional ensemble play – the last time I worked like this was back at university. I really wanted to work with this group of actors, and this felt like the right project at the right time.

It sounds like Ana is quite a defensive character?
Absolutely – I’ve practically got the word scrawled across the back of my script. But it’s not just Ana; it’s all of us. Online, in politics, even in our friendships – everyone’s defensive these days. Often for good reason: we’re protecting things that matter, fighting for rights, pushing for change. But that same defensiveness can also shut conversations down. No one wants to be wrong or sit with discomfort, so we double down.
Ana really reflects that. Her defensiveness can sometimes spark bigger events in the play, but I also think it comes from a good place. She’s willing to say the thing no one else will – even if it’s awkward. That takes guts. It’s how you stop being a bystander. I admire that about her. I’m a bit like that too – I’d rather say something difficult than sit quietly and let something slide.
I have ADHD, and I really struggle with leaving things unresolved – if something’s off, I have to say it. Is Ana like that too? Does she speak up just because something needs saying?
It’s definitely about saying it, yes. That need to cut through the nonsense – I admire that, and it’s something I really value in my friendships too. For Ana, though, it’s more considered. She’s smart, articulate, and she’s done the work – she’s thought carefully about how to be a better ally, how to uplift others, and she’s very aware of her privilege as a cis white woman, even as a bisexual person.
That bisexuality becomes a point of tension in the play – she’s in a lesbian space, and there’s this inside joke about bi people often being the punchline. Sometimes it lands, sometimes it stings. Because Ana’s so conscious of these dynamics, she feels a strong sense of justice, and that’s what drives her to speak up, even if it kills the vibe or makes her look awkward.
The play really shows that queerness isn’t a monolith. Just because everyone’s queer – or mostly lesbians – doesn’t mean they all think or act the same. That’s where the tension and brilliance of the piece really comes through.
I really like Ana from what you’ve said. I’m bisexual too – married to a woman, with two little kids – so I get it. It’s hard to see yourself as queer sometimes, and to feel like you fit in those spaces.
100%. I mean, I’m bi, and I’d never played a queer character until this year – and now I’ve played two bisexual characters in the last six months. It’s been amazing. Not something I expected at all, let alone in such a short space of time.
People’s understanding of bisexuality is often about their own projection. You feel like you constantly have to prove you’re queer enough. And that’s exhausting.
Bisexual women definitely have more privilege than bisexual men – there’s less stigma. But we’re still massively fetishised. I’ve experienced that. And for bisexual men, there’s so much more to push through. What happens is that people assume bisexual women are just straight, and bisexual men are just gay. You see how in both cases, the projection still centres men – like everything’s ultimately about men. Even the prejudice traces back to that.


It really does. I’ve never thought of that before.
Right? It’s mad – which is why I adore this play. You’re not watching ten men on a stage. I’ve seen those plays, and enjoyed some of them, but do we need loads of them? No. We need balance.
Have you noticed a shift in queer representation on stage lately? Or does it still feel surface-level in places?
There’s definitely been a shift, especially in smaller theatres. They’re programming the most interesting work – performance art, solo pieces, underrepresented voices – probably because they’re not bound by commercial quotas. The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs feels radical not just because it tackles relevant issues, but because it’s full of queer joy. So often queer narratives focus only on pain or struggle, but this show lets your heart soar, then breaks it, then puts it back together again. I say that as someone who saw it twice as an audience member before joining the cast – it’s wild to be on the other side now.
But it’s not just about what stories get programmed – it’s also about who’s making them. You can’t have a ‘queer season’ if no one from the community is involved behind the scenes. One of the best things about this production is how many of our cast and crew identify within the community. It creates a space that’s fun, joyful, and safe – where people speak the same language and aren’t afraid to talk about identity or relationships. And when people feel safe, they take creative risks. That’s when theatre gets really exciting.
That’s really cool. How much has seeing someone else play Ana influenced the way you’ve approached her?
That was actually the one thing that made me nervous about taking it on. Claudia Jolly, who played Ana before, was so good – and we’re very different performers. So I was surprised they offered it to me after my audition. I even wondered if there’d been some kind of mistake!
But I think the fact that we’re different has actually helped. I don’t have her performance stuck in my head. I loved what she did, but my Ana is different. I just want to do justice to the writing – and to the character she helped bring to life.
Earlier this year I was in a brand-new play, originating a role for the first time, and I kept thinking: what would it feel like to watch someone else play this in a few years? That’s the power of great writing – it can hold different interpretations. You can have a whole string of actors take it on and each time something new and compelling can emerge.

I’m sure one day they’ll do a long-form Narnia series and you’ll get to experience that from the other side too.
Yeah, I think that is happening! Greta Gerwig’s doing it for Netflix, I think.
And I just keep thinking about that little girl who’s going to get the call. Because it changed my life. I had the most glorious experiences – we were so protected, and I hope she’ll be protected in the same way. It’s a different climate now with social media and all that, but I’m genuinely excited for her. She’s about to go on the most amazing adventure.
For many people, you’ll always be little Lucy Pevensie who went to Narnia. How do you feel about that legacy now?
Honestly, I just feel so grateful. It holds such a special place in people’s hearts – there’s a lot of warmth and nostalgia around it. When people recognise me from Narnia, they’ll often say it’s a film they watched with their parents, or one they always put on at Christmas. It’s wild to think I occupy that kind of space in someone’s memory. It’s beautiful.
And I feel lucky because we were so well looked after. The experience itself was genuinely lovely, so I’m proud of it. I don’t feel the need to distance myself from it, which I know some actors do when they’re trying to move on from their early roles. But I’m very aware that I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing now if it weren’t for Narnia.
I auditioned when I was seven, got the role when I was eight, and now I’m turning 30 next month. So I’ve been doing this for 22 years – and I still feel like it’s my dream job. I get to live my dream.
Also, I currently have the same haircut I had in the films – this little bob – so if I’m on the Tube with no makeup and the bob? Game over. I’m Lucy again.
But honestly, I’m proud of it. It makes my heart feel very full.
My eldest daughter’s 10, and she’s just started reading the books – because I mentioned I was talking to you today!
Nice! They’re such beautiful stories.
This might be something you’ll appreciate as a father – my mum came out to New Zealand with me to chaperone during filming. We were there for seven months. I was eight when I arrived and turned nine two months in. On my ninth birthday, my dad and sisters flew out to visit.
My dad said it was the most surreal experience – watching his nine-year-old daughter walk him around set, knowing everyone’s names, saying, ‘this is where we get snacks, this is our green room, here’s the camera.’ Just completely at ease, showing him around like it was my world.
It was almost like I was giving him a guided set tour. I showed him where I did school, everything. But what struck him most was how happy I was. He said it was maybe the happiest he’d ever seen me. I was just loving every second of it.
I know how lucky I was. Very, very lucky.
I saw the cutest photo earlier – you and Anna Popplewell when you were little. You looked so tiny next to her, and you could just see the affection there.
Yeah, Anna played Susan, and it really was a family. We were in New Zealand, completely on the other side of the world from home, and that bond was real – it still is. Every now and then we look at each other like, God, we’re so old. I think me turning 30 has thrown everyone a bit. I invited them to my birthday, and their replies were all basically, How are we here already?
It’s a privilege, though. I remember when I turned 30, I was freaking out – and then I thought about friends who never got to. Every day’s a privilege. I’ve never worried about age since.
That’s exactly it. The industry can really mess with your head about ageing – especially if you’re ambitious and a bit of a perfectionist. It’s easy to attach your sense of progress to milestones like that. But, I’ve talked about this before: when I was 18, I became seriously ill. I was in hospital for a long time and came very close to losing my life. That experience gave me perspective early on. Just being alive feels like a gift, and it keeps me grounded when I get caught up in the small stuff.
That said, I’m still slightly freaked out to be turning 30! But if I’m going to do it, this is the way – I’ll be on stage that day, performing a show I love, surrounded by an amazing cast and crew. That feels like something to celebrate.

You’ve spoken quite openly about your illness and the scars it left. What made you decide to share that publicly?
For years, I felt I had to hide my hand. I saw it as a failure – like I didn’t meet the industry’s beauty standards. And not just the industry – life in general holds us to impossible ideals. It’s something we even explore in the play.
But hiding it took the joy out of work. Every public or professional moment, it was all I could think about. Eventually, I just wanted to be free of that weight. Speaking out was a way to reclaim my space and hopefully help others too. Everyone has something they struggle with, whether visible or not.
I’d already accepted it in my personal life, but professionally I still felt pressure to conceal it. I was scared it might define me, that it’d be all anyone saw. But that hasn’t happened. It’s part of my story – not the whole story.
How has the industry responded since you shared your story? Have people generally been supportive?
Yeah, totally. The irony is, I was often the one making it a problem. Before I ever spoke publicly, I was working steadily – but I’d be in the makeup chair saying, We’ve got to cover this, or in costume fittings asking what to do about the scars.
I even worked on a pilot where the writer thought they were great – wanted to write them into the character. That was such a boost. But I’m also sure I’ve lost jobs where someone saw a self-tape, clocked the scars, and decided I wasn’t right. That happens.
That said, the people I have worked with have been amazing. Earlier this year I did Tarantula, where the character ends up badly injured and scarred. When I first did it during COVID, no one knew about mine. Doing it again now, with all of that out in the open, was completely freeing. I wasn’t hiding anymore – just acting. It felt like liberation.
There’s increasing scrutiny over who gets to play what roles. How do you approach questions of representation in the roles you take?
It’s such an important conversation. Being part of a play like this – filled with queer DNA, surrounded by mostly queer people – feels like a real privilege.
I feel lucky to have played bisexual characters. I wasn’t expecting it, and it’s meant a lot.
I think the most urgent part of the conversation is about trans actors. I’m committed to advocating for trans representation – not just in casting trans roles, but ensuring those actors have real space, dignity, and the chance to tell their own stories. Too often, those roles go to cis actors, and it robs trans performers of the few opportunities they get.
But the real goal – the next step – is for trans actors to be cast in roles that aren’t about identity. I want to see a trans actress as a queen in a fantasy show – not because she’s trans, just because she’s brilliant.
I said exactly that to Maria, who plays Bridget in our cast. She’s regal – give her a crown and a gown. That’s the kind of visibility we need. We’re not there yet, but that’s the kind of parity I’m hoping for.
There’s still so much misunderstanding and scapegoating of trans people, especially in the media. How do you think theatre can challenge those narratives and offer something different?
I think a lot of people simply don’t have trans people in their lives, so their entire understanding comes from the media – and trans people are constantly scapegoated by politicians. That’s why it’s so important to seek out trans writers, trans art, and shows like ours. You need more than one narrative. What people are being fed just isn’t the full picture.
It’s not just about trans issues either. The play also tackles disability and access, and how often theatres platform marginalised stories without actually being accessible spaces. You can’t claim to support inclusion if your building isn’t accessible to disabled audience members, or if a trans person walks in and immediately feels unsafe in a toilet. It has to go beyond lip service – it’s about creating real community.
That’s what the play does so beautifully. It doesn’t just show the difficulties – it offers a vision of what a utopian queer space could feel like. A space built on empathy, dignity, and proper listening. It’s not just about putting those issues on stage – it’s about making people feel seen.
What do you hope audiences will take away from the show?
I hope they leave with some of the songs stuck in their heads – that’s always a good sign. But more than that, I want them to leave wanting to talk about it. To have conversations – with people in the community, with people outside of it – and to feel brave enough to really engage.
What kind of conversations?
About community. About what the queer community means and how we can support each other. The play asks us to listen – to truly listen – because we’re stronger when we do. It’s like a choir: if everyone sings their own part without listening, it doesn’t work. But when you find harmony, that’s where the beauty is.
Those conversations won’t always be easy – there’ll be disagreement, but that’s part of the point. It’s about finding common ground, understanding each other, and bringing that into our everyday lives. That could mean real, tangible acts – a phone call, a message, checking in with someone – not just posting something online.
I want people to feel empowered, to think, to talk. Maybe even have a little sing on the way home too.
The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs runs at the Kiln Theatre from 19 June to 12 July 2025.
Book your tickets now at https://kilntheatre.com/
Words by Nick Barr
Photography Mark Senior
Portrait of Georgie by Harry Livingstone
If you enjoyed this, check out our interview with Georgie from Nov 2023.