As is often the case, there are more than a few plays at the Fringe this year which deal with the subject of grief. On the face of it, Collision Theatre’s Letters From My Dad (Who is Dead) threatens to balance precariously on the edge of mawkishness, with a concept that is as almost shockingly simple.
A dying journalist (Paddy Stockwell) has written a series of letters to his infant son, Charlie (Angus Gordon), to be read at a particular milestone in his life, milestones such as reaching high school, taking his first kiss, getting married, each letter carrying some words of comfort, advice and what wisdom can be bestowed from beyond the grave. As each letter is read, it is bookended by a snippet of life as the ever-older Charlie grows and changes throughout his life.
It’s an idea that sounds almost so obvious, and one so open to melodrama, that it would be doomed to failure. The opening scene seems to agree, with Gordon portraying a very young Charlie failing to understand his mother’s (Shona Wilby) pained explanation about his father’s death. It’s got that adult playing a child problem that threatens to teeter just off the edge of second-hand embarrassment. But it’s quickly clear that Gordon’s portrayal of Charlie is a layered evolution throughout the play. He alters his gait, his vocabulary, his energy and the timbre of his voice as the character ages; quite different from Stockwell's unchanging sentinel, clad forever in a hospital gown and speaking with a constantly prosaic epistolary grace.
The cast is rounded out with Emily Butterfield as Charlie’s schoolfriend and love interest, Sam, who perhaps has the least to work with on the page. But the story is really more about the connection with the father, so as such it makes sense that this newcomer to the family group would have a little less to do.
What really lands about it is the choice to have each letter take the form of a conversation, as while the father will simply speak the words written down, the responses and replies flow well without ever feeling contrived or awkward. And that’s the beauty of the play: it’s firm in its unselfconsciousness. It never tries to do anything wholly unexpected. Instead, it simply takes the simple enough premise that it has set and plays it out with grace and heart.
By the time the cast take their final bows, it’s hard to argue with the lump in your throat and the tears running down your face.