Old Vic’s Tree: Beckett plus Seinfeld – plus swearing

‘Fucking hell. You twat. Fuck off. Fuck. Fuck.’ These dispiriting words are the opening line of Tree, a newish play by the lugubrious comic Daniel Kitson, whose stand-up show once transported me into the heavenly arms of Lethe. His script opens with a chance encounter between two oddball smart Alecs. The outdoor setting, borrowed from Beckett, is a suburban cul-de-sac where a single tree is about to shed its autumn raiment. One man crouches in the branches, another stands below. They exchange confidences, observations, food and witticisms. At the end, one departs.

This is a play of quips and anecdotes but no significant action. The tree-dweller is an eco-warrior protesting at the council’s policy of bough amputation and trunk eradication. The man below is a married solicitor hoping to share a date with a prospective girlfriend. Neither story makes sense. The protestor claims to be a local landlord who has inhabited his tree for nine years with the help of two friendly clients who deliver mail and meals to him as a condition of their tenancy. The man below appears to have chosen the unlikeliest spot on earth, a suburban pavement, for a date with his heart’s desire.

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This deliberate absurdity is the glory of the play. Kitson, an immensely resourceful wordsmith, sets out to goad and tease the audience by daring us to believe the preposterous twaddle each man is telling the other. Both characters are witty, anti-authoritarian eccentrics with a love of literary swordplay. The dialogue is wonderful. It has the dense and exuberant springiness of Seinfeld but with a refreshing and authentic English flavour. Plus a lot of swearing. It’s hard to convey its virtues in tiny excerpts but I’ll try. Man below contends that surrendering one’s bus seat to a woman isn’t virtuous but narcissistic: ‘You’re just making 30 other cunts think you’re a fucking champion.’