Loving Letters

"I've never been written a love letter," bemoaned a friend during a 10-minute break of Little Boy Productions' staging of A.R. Gurney's "Love Letters" two weekends ago. Since I felt that called for a semblance of a comment, I sheepishly admitted that I did get one back in college-most of its content eludes me now, except for a line or two that strangely sounded like the refrain of Sting & Police's Every Breath You Take. She felt better.

(At least it wasn't anything like Everard Webley, who in Aldous Huxley's Point Counter Point, wrote to Elinor of his unreciprocated affection:

"I warn you: one of these days I'll try the good old methods. I'll do a slight Rape of the Sabines and then there will be your ineffable, remote superiority be? How I hate you really for compelling me to love you so much... And you not here to receive the punishment you deserve."

If someone launches his courtship in this sniveling manner, even the hopeless would go a-running and hollering "harassment.")

In this age of e-mail and abbreviated text messages, expressing a la Elizabeth Browning's How do I love thee? Let me count the ways sort of epistle... is probably considered by many an outdated practice or worse, a dying art. If many resort to a breach of copyright, or nothing at all, it is because scribbling letters with your own hand requires a lot of sweat and ingenuity from the sender.

That is why, personally speaking, "Love Letters" was a play with timely, universal meaning. The technology of the times may have made life easier and quicker-including courtship-but, the play underscores that there's nothing quite like the beauty that comes with exertion and effort. The feelings and sentiments are rawer because, writing by hand is devoid of the convenience and comfort of a backspace or a delete key and the penmanship leaves behind a long-term indication or proof of one's personal character and individuality. "Love Letters" traces the lifelong correspondence between Andrew Makepeace Ladd III (Bart Guingona) and Melissa Garder (Pinky Amador), both born to affluence and esteemed standing in society, which all began with uncomplicated, childish birthday party thank you notes and summer camp postcards circa 1930s. The intensity and intimacy of the correspondence would heighten with each swap and switch of letter, enduring riffs, new loves, political situations and other major life changes. This lasted till Andy became a staid, dutiful Republican senator and Melissa, a vivacious, unstable painter.

It was my first time to watch a play that's intended to be read, and I did wonder how the two would maximize the parameters of movement imposed by the prolific American playwright. All throughout they were seated behind separate desks onstage while reciting their letters to the audience. But it was lovely to watch these two seasoned theatre actors' acting, encapsulating the roles and transitions from varying ages with accuracy and depth of emotion the way Gurney have written it. Relying on their facial language and nuances and inflections of their voices, the limitations of movement or the lack of it hardly restricted their capacity to illustrate the brightness, sadness, freedom and misery in their characters' privileged, interwoven, written lives. The play succeeded to be comical without sacrificing its poignancy, but it was still about the lives of American East Coast WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), and I thought, despite the profusion of witty lines, the lost-in-translation moments and isolated laughter would come in quite a larger quantity among an audience of college (and required) students. Yet, you'd be surprised how wrong I was.

During an open forum afterwards, a student asked Bart Guingona, also the director of the play, if there was any tweak or fine-tuning made with the script to suit the local audience, to which he answered in the negative, saying that the play has always appealed to Filipinos, which explained its constant re-runs. An English professor then asked the actors what they hoped to achieve with this kind of play, to which they replied that "Love Letters" is essentially a tribute to letter writing and the hope the play would empower one to pick up the pen, write and let go of one's riot of thoughts.

The bittersweet tale of "Love Letters" ended not with what most-if not all-of the audience would have wanted it to be, but something in those superfluous exchange of words, brought out the wonder and thrill of not only being the recipient of someone else's attention and hard work, but also in creating a soulful and lasting connection to someone through a letter (or snail mail, for that matter, as what it is dubbed these days) through the good and bad times. In the past, people would break into a sprint and head for the post office or meet the postmaster halfway so as to get a hold of their letters the soonest possible. And that kind of reaction brought into play by handwritten letters doesn't actually go unnoticed even among psychologists and psychotherapists today who recommend to infuse existing relationships with that steady measure of excitement by way of this practice.

The celebrated composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, despite a short-lived existence, was said to have found happiness by simply writing letters to his wife. Here are excerpts of what he sent to Constanze in 1790: P.S. While I was writing the last page, tear after tear fell on the paper. But I must cheer up - catch! - An astonishing number of kisses are flying about - The deuce! - I see a whole crowd of them! Ha! Ha! I have just caught three - They are delicious! - You can still answer this letter, but you must address your reply to Linz, Poste Restante - That is the safest course. As I do not yet know for certain whether I shall go to Regensburg, I can't tell you anything definite. Just write on the cover that the letter is to be kept until called for. Adieu-Dearest, most beloved little wife-Take care of your health-and don't think of walking into town. Do write and tell me how you like our new quarters-Adieu. I kiss you millions of times.

There were times before when we'd sense a brewing minor spat between my uncle and aunt, we'd turn to his cheesy lines in a love letter we found tucked between the yellowed pages of some book in our grandfather's library as the ice-breaker. Love letters are, indeed, fascinating, unforgettable, tangible records of human behavior-melodramatic lines, wrong grammar usage and all. And when things reach a stalemate, get tough or become unbearable, like what Andrew Makepeace Ladd III does, you can draw solace and support in these mementos that remind of how much you really meant to each other.