Review: LETTERS FROM MAX, Hampstead Theatre

Based on Sarah Ruhl’s eponymous 2018, the stage adaptation of Letters from Max is downright harrowing. It follows her correspondence with a brilliant former student of hers, Max Ritvo, whose sudden cancer recurrence in his early 20s echoes in Ruhl’s life. As the pair discuss illness and artistry, the real power of the poet comes into focus.

Director Blanche McIntyre materialises the indescribable grief of living in a moving, unforgettable production. They ponder death, religion, pain, and reincarnation summoning unique poetry, at times morbid and cruel, others candid and tender. Ruhl’s writing is sublime — one could only wish to have such a splendid obituary written about them. 

Sirine Saba and Eric Sirakian, accompanied by Laura Moody at the cello, tell a compassionate story of artistic devotion. It all started when Ritvo applied to Ruhl’s playwriting workshop and she was instantly fascinated by this eager, funny young man who bent language to unravel his feelings. A flow of epistolary linguistic prowess begins, both teacher and muse at once. McIntyre stages their physical separation ingeniously, installing a floating see-through screen across the traverse of Dick Bird’s glossy set design. They orbit this divider, which often turns into a reflective surface to join them with Guy Hoare’s clever tricks of light.

Saba and Sirakian’s personalities strike a perfect balance. Where he is waspish, she is calm; where he is hurting, she is comforting. His extravagant physicality softens in her placid presence, his buzzing portrayal only placated by moments of pure poetry. Ruhl immortalises a beautiful mind, never once asking what could have been if the illness hadn’t come back. As per the playwright’s nature, each word is perfectly calibrated, their weight measured and gently placed in front of the audience. She and Ritvo conjure imagery so specific the piece becomes a gorgeous look at mortality suspended between poetry reading and dramatic performance.

While Ruhl controls each layer of the narrative, it’s Ritvo who leads the symbolism. The prose ripples, unchained in the rawness of his descriptions. Even the untreatability of his cancer is poetry, curated in its gnarliness, admittedly indulgent and insulated. What began as the serendipitous contemplation of existence grows into a cycle of love and beauty in the face of unreasonable suffering.

Letters from Max holds tremendous artistic value, but it has the tendency to drag on as a show. The unforgiving end looms in the distance, threatening, as they break apart the meaning of pain and advocate for the fierce usefulness of the soul. It’s an intellectually enriching night, especially if you love poetry.

Letters from Max runs at Hampstead Theatre until 28 June.