Art is a play about a painting: a large white canvas featuring three faint white lines. This object becomes the catalyst for a furious confrontation between three friends which will undermine the very foundations of their relationship. Over the course of a single act, the characters tear each other apart with devastating precision. Its sharp, and cruel, and very funny.

The space is small, and the characters at first seem over-large. Each is insufferable in his own way: Serge (Edward Eustace) exudes smug self-satisfaction; Marc (Rupert Grace) drawls with a lofty superiority; Yvan's (Matthew Clayton's) permanent smile walks the line between conciliatory and pathetic. But once the drama kicks off, the intimacy between actor and audience becomes a wonderful advantage: the claustrophobia of the apartment infuses the theatre.

It's possible to see the tensions flitting just beneath the surface of the faces of the characters, betraying their frustration. Marc gives himself away with subtle raises of the eyebrows; Serge through his jutting, furious chin. The restrained hostility is pitch perfect, and indeed, my one criticism of the play was that it could benefit from a somewhat slower build-up. The quiet venom conveyed through polite remarks is chilling in a way than the eruptions of shouting cannot be, and the expertly timed silences that punctuate the verbal barrages have impressive heft. The climax of the play is entirely wordless, and wonderfully taut. I won't give away what happens, but the release when the almost unbearable tension breaks is palpable: it gets the biggest laugh of the night, and the hilarity is tempered with relief.

The actors are believable as men entering middle-age, the bones of their insecurities visible through their pretensions - and the bond between them is highly convincing, making the characters' struggle for autonomy from each other all the more sharply articulated. Each character, seeking to demolish the others, visibly destroys themselves. 'If you are you because I am me, and if I am me because you are you, then I am not who I am and you are not who you are', Yvan quotes his therapist as saying. Of course, it is a ridiculous statement, but it also cuts to the heart of the difficulty. As, ultimately, a ridiculous painting - with its three very faint lines, almost impossible to distinguish - also does.