The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church

When I bought tickets for a show called The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church, I wasn't necessarily thinking, "Well, I bet this is the funniest, most heartwarming thing I'll see on stage. And when a mildly dopey looking man with impressively thick glasses and beard walked to the center of the floor, surrounded on all sides by audience to deliver a 90-minute monologue, I'll be honest, I wasn't thinking, "I bet this will be the best show I've seen in months." And yet. And yet...

Daniel Kitson is a British comedian who has crafted a show around the idea that while house hunting in the UK, he came to discover (and then possess) over 30,000 letters written to and from one Gregory Church. He finds the last letter first, still in the typewriter. It's a suicide note, and the realtor eventually explains that Church was found dead in the house next to a bottle of pills and with a noose hanging in the living room. After he has sorted the letters out chronologically, he finds that the first 57 are, in fact, also suicide notes. From 24 years earlier. What follows is a description of his attempt to piece together Church's life from the contents of his correspondence to find out why he wanted to kill himself, why he didn't, and then, again, why he came to that act.

Crucially, Kitson begins the show explaining that most of what we'll hear is made up, but "this part is completely true." He then launches into the full show, never letting us know when that part that was true stopped, allowing us to hang on in a sense of suspended disbelief. As he pieces things together, we come to feel that we know Gregory, but also that we'll never know him. Some of the most intimate details of his life are available to us. Others remain out of sight forever.

Kitson is disarmingly charming, winning over the audience (for the most part) in seconds, and holding attention ever so tightly to his chest. Not everyone was entranced. At one point, the actor stopped himself to tap someone in the front row to wake them up. "Truly, I don't mind!" he shouted, seemingly in earnest. "I really just wanted to tap your leg. The audience was his. Most impressively, the person he woke up, after what was surely a moment's embarrassment, was guided back into the show with a bolt of charm and good humor.

Watching the pieces come together, dreading the approach of the last suicide note, hoping against realistic hope that it was all in jest, we were gifted with a life, knowable and unknowable. the show is, ultimately, a celebration of life shown through a peculiar prism. It is also extraordinary. I immediately wrote to the playwright/actor/good-time-guy to see if he'd consider turning the piece into a novel. I will now hope against hope that he will write me back. I could go on about this forever, but I'll stop here. Mostly because I'm running running late to...you guessed it...another show