Dear Martin review

Not to be confused with Nic Stone’s identically titled 2018 novel of racial injustice, this underwritten comedy from Madeleine Brettingham plays out like a twisted reworking of the story of Cyrano de Bergerac. Here, convicted serial killer Martin coaches unhappily married Dave through his relationship troubles in a series of devious letters and awkward face-to-face encounters.

Though there is plenty of promise in the story’s setup – both of dark humour and of compelling character conflict – Brettingham struggles to pin down either. Martin seethes with frustration as he searches for a way to alleviate the overwhelming boredom of his incarceration by toying with the needy, easily led Dave, but Brettingham’s shallow script only scratches the surface of their tangled, co-dependent relationship. Their stories feel directionless, and the jokes they crack along the way lack the subversive bite that the scenario demands. But while the comedy is leaden, Brettingham does make some interesting points about the deep roots of toxic masculinity and the ways in which callous, self-interested manipulators like Martin can exploit some men’s feelings of entitlement and disempowerment.

Director Wiebke Green gives the production a brisk staging, rattling through scenes at a breakneck pace and cranking up the silliness with some cartoonishly exaggerated performances from the four-strong cast. Ben Simpson’s Dave is less plucky underdog than hapless puppy, always either whining or hopping excitedly from foot to foot. Amelia Donkor works hard in a series of thinly drawn parts, including the grossly incompetent psychiatrist handling Martin’s case and a frequent visitor to the same psychiatric hospital, whose veneer of chirpy friendliness covers a deep, quiet sadness.
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