Hampstead theatre, London
Sarah Ruhl’s stage adaptation of the book she wrote with her former student Max Ritvo, who died of cancer at 25, is smartly written if emotionally distant

Sarah Ruhl first knew Max Ritvo as a student of her playwriting class at Yale. He was a 20-year-old poet who had lived through paediatric cancer, Ewing’s sarcoma. The cancer came back and he died five years later but in that time Ruhl and Ritvo wrote letters to each other with thoughts on life, death, God, faith and nothingness. That became the basis of a book published in 2018, two years after Ritvo’s death.

Now adapted for the stage, they form a kind of modern-day Aristotelian dialogue, written by Ruhl (who previously wrote the epistolary play, Dear Elizabeth). Under the direction of Blanche McIntyre, Max (Eric Sirakian) and Sarah (Sirine Saba) variously become teacher and student for each other, and of life rather than merely playwriting. They walk past or around each other, not touching but sometimes in close proximity. The intimacies are in their words.

Sadler’s Wells, London
The Spanish dancer’s latest show with his all-male company is an eruption of pleasure, ego and neediness that is full of fantastic chemistry

It was Manuel Liñán’s last show ¡Viva! that made everyone sit up and take notice. In it, his all-male company were dressed in the full frills of traditional women’s flamenco dresses, pulling at the seams of the dance form’s carefully constructed gender roles. New work Muerta de Amor may have less overt a concept, but it’s still rich in originality, with a few genius moments (and he hasn’t completely jettisoned dresses). This time it’s out with the polka dots and in with sleek black fashiony takes on flamenco costume – sheer top, kilt-style skirt, long leather jacket. In power poses behind a row of mic stands the men look like a still-handsome boyband on their multimillion-dollar reunion tour.

The show’s title might talk of the death of love, but desire – physical and emotional – are very much pulsatingly alive here, alongside vulnerability, angst, passion and humour. With Liñán, his six dancers and the band, is the mighty singer Mara Rey, who can blow your socks off with husky volume and dramatic chutzpah. But in this show, everyone sings, like a series of monologues (I say it every year, but with lyrics so central, some surtitles for non-Spanish speakers would be helpful).

Part of the Flamenco festival, which continues at Sadler’s Wells, London, until 8 June