Dear Martin. Arcola Theatre.

Martin is a murderous psychopath locked away in a high-security hospital that, he says, “is like the school in Harry Potter but with more locks”. Blessed with the dubious distinction of having “the highest IQ of any killer on the unit”, he spends his life munching on Twixes, doing cryptic crosswords, and dealing with voluminous erotic correspondence from female admirers. Estate agent Dave is a sweet, sensible, beta, father of two who discovers that his serially-unfaithful wife, Lucy, is one of Martin’s many pen pals.

Craving the return of his mundane life watching John Wick movies with the family, Dave contacts the inmate with a request that the exchange of letters stop. An odd couple friendship ensues. But what does the manipulative Martin actually want from Dave, and can one truly trust companionship and relationship advice from a serial wife-murderer?

Madeleine Brettingham has a long list of TV and radio comedy writing credits and knows how to compose a joke, though the comedy here evokes mild and gentle chuckles rather than raucous belly laughs. The writer’s broadcasting background shows. We are firmly in sitcom territory here, a setting evidenced by short scenes, quirky minor characters, and an epistolary approach to storytelling that sees much of the narrative emerge in letters between the two protagonists. Think Ladies of Letters re-written to feature a gormless moron and Hannibal Lector. If one has any sympathy in Dear Martin, it is for the unseen Lucy and her kids, who would be better off without either of these duds.

Having set up her characters and situation, Brettingham strains to take things in any obvious direction. The problem is that having established that Martin is a shallow, superficial, and exploitative thug, it is challenging to believe that his attitude toward Dave could move beyond the transactional to something deeper. Engulfed in narcissism and stuck in prison, Martin, literally and metaphorically, has nowhere to go. Dave’s journey, essentially giving his wife a taste of her own medicine (to predictably disastrous effect), feels equally implausible.

Alex Mugnaioni’s Martin is an odd mash-up of Basil Fawlty, Sacha Baron Cohen, and Ryland Clark, but proves watchable and engaging as the Kafka-quoting “dark kind of artisan”. A likeable Ben Simpson does his best with Dave, but the character is such a sitcom staple (nerdy, put-upon, socially awkward husband) that the performer has little room for manoeuvre. Amelia Donkor puts in a welcome appearance as the hospital psychiatrist, as does Edward Judge as Martin’s fellow inmate Ben.

Dear Martin works well enough as a vehicle for gags and some decent aphorisms on relationships. Perhaps that is the sum of the writer and director’s aim here. But the piece struggles mightily as a comedy drama.

Writer:  Madeleine Brettingham

Director:  Wiebke Green

STAR RATING:  2.5 stars