Sirine Saba and Laura Moody in Letters from Max. Photo Helen MurrayI’m bitter. I love the world but it won’t love me back exclaims Max as he undergoes yet another chemotherapy session in a bid to stymie the advance of the tumours which threaten to drain and diminish his phenomenal life force. Far from a misery-fest, the humour and irreverent observations come thick and fast in this oft-joyous ode to the wonder of the human condition and the resilience of belief, even as damning physical evidence to the contrary, mounts its assault.
We open with Sarah (Sirine Saba) outlining her first encounter with Max (Eric Sirakian) as he is accepted onto a writing course, irrespective of his lack of experience and the red pen of the college’s first round vetting panel. Thereafter, quickly develops a rapport and symbiosis between student and professor which transcends a mere teacher/learner dynamic. They exchange views and playfully play at wordy wordplay, frequently accessing contributions which were later included in Max’s published collections Four Reincarnations and The Final Voicemails.
There is undoubtedly a sadness and inevitability to the play’s narrative progression, but also a lightness of touch in Blanche McIntyre’s direction which never allows a lack of hope to overwhelm proceedings. When performed in other cities including New York and Toronto, the simple but effective musical accompaniment to the dialogue exchanges, was delivered courtesy of instruments which differed from the sonorous cello played here by the aptly named Laura Moody. The staging too has been subject to a flexible approach, allowing for different interpretations to flourish. For Hampstead, Dick Bird — better known for his dance and opera designs — has conjured a simple playing area with the audience ranged either side of a stage divided by a suspended semi-opaque Perspex panel. The effect is to both separate and include us in the storytelling. We feel addressed and yet never fully in the same room, as though looking through a one-way mirror. The voyeuristic quality of this device affords each of us an element of privacy for the more emotionally taxing moments as Max’s condition deteriorates.
What could so easily have been a dry and self-indulgent wallow delivered as an homage to a robbed talent, is instead a very real acknowledgment of the bond of friendship, compassion, love and emotional intelligence.
LETTERS FROM MAX plays downstairs at Hampstead Theatre until 28 June.
