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‘A hundred love stories’: Remembering the extraordinary Adam Lenson
From West End stars to lifelong friendships, a moving tribute to the theatre director who has died aged just 41
When we were seventeen, my friends and I went on our first holiday without adult supervision and with girls. We were clearly not ready for either since the trip concluded with us escalating a feud by surreptitiously placing raw fish in various places in the females’ Marbella hotel room.
On the plane home, I mentioned to my pals how excited I was to touch down in London and receive all the text messages that clearly couldn’t come through in Spain. They pointed out that the problem was not my being abroad but the fact that they were pretty much my only friends. When we landed, they gleefully asked if any texts had come through and, if so, who from?
Thinking fast, I lied: “Adam Lenson”.
Adam died last Thursday, and, with hindsight, my answer in 2002 feels prophetic. I had met Adam at summer camp a couple of years earlier and knew him primarily as the self-taught harmonica maestro. He went on to study natural sciences at Cambridge but had the soul of an artist, opting to pursue a career in theatre instead of medicine. Perhaps, on some level, he always knew there wasn’t enough time.
In our early 20s, we reconnected. After that, Adam never missed a birthday, a book launch, a show opening or any opportunity to show support. When I wrote my first personal piece for a newspaper, he told me he wanted me to become “our generation’s David Sedaris”.
He existed largely outside of my friendship groups, and, perhaps as a result of this, our conversations were generally more sincere and earnest than I am used to. He was gentle and kind to the end, always willing to talk through a creative idea and invariably giving advice that would prove invaluable.
Adam collaborated with the likes of Jeff Goldblum, Stephen Daldry and Victoria Wood. When Lindsay Lohan made her West End debut and the knives were out, it was Adam who sat up all night running lines with her. When he introduced us to the Mean Girls star backstage, her first words were simply, “Oh, you’re Adam’s friends? I love him!” Everyone did.
At a friend’s wedding, we were ushers tasked with holding up the chuppah. Adam’s corner drooped noticeably at one point, though he maintained for years he had not fallen asleep. It now feels as though a corner of the rectangle will forever be lowered. At our own wedding, I opted for a jokey speech that concluded with sincerity. I told Adam I thought the final line was perhaps unnecessary and had made the sentiment too obvious. He told me it was exactly as it should be, and his was the validation I needed.
A decade or so back, we lost touch, and I sent him a lengthy email, as is my wont, asking what had happened and whether it could be rectified. It was one of my better decisions and meant I had the pleasure of Adam’s company for the rest of his life. His lust for life and art was insatiable, and he was never happier than when talking about either. On one trip to the cinema in recent years, I was interrupted en route by one of the most intense phone conversations of my life. Adam, with me on Oxford Street, stood at a distance to respect my privacy. When the call concluded, he made no mention of the fact that we had missed the film and just said, “Let’s get lunch.” Naturally, he spent the meal talking me through the crisis.
When Adam introduced us to Mean Girls star Lindsay Lohan, her first words were simply, “Oh, you’re Adam’s friends? I love him!” Everyone did
When I interviewed him in September 2024, he told me: “Most people go through life in a way that’s not mindful of the present. I try to have a good time today because later is an illusion. I enjoy being outdoors with the breeze on my face and getting a coffee with my friends. Life is made of those moments. Now is what we have.”
In August, Adam took a one-man show to Edinburgh for a full run. In October, during his final days, he was working on new music. Last Monday, a week ago, I saw Adam for the final time. He talked about The Simpsons and his five favourite films and asked us how we were doing and what we were working on, curious to the last. When it was time to leave, Adam told us he loved us and had loved being our friend and that his life had been “a hundred love stories”. It was a final act of generosity from a man who achieved more in his 41 years on earth than most manage in double that time.
Anyone who ever disagreed with him will know he was a man of passions who habitually had the last word. It seems only right that that should be the case here. This is what Adam messaged me the day my grandfather died, words that are equally true of the man who wrote them:
“Rarely have I actually been so sure that someone’s memory will be a blessing.”
A person like Adam comes along once in a lifetime. I’m just glad it was my lifetime.
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