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.