Like M. C. Escher’s lithograph Drawing Hands, the friendship between 20th-century painters Lucian Freud and Frank Auerbach is cross-referential, knotty, and difficult to pin down. The conceit of Jay Palombella’s Mensch takes its impetus from their relationship as reciprocal muses, with both adopting the role of artist and inspiration to one another. Mensch starts at a prescribed destination – Auerbach’s etching of Freud (currently on display at the Fitzwilliam) – and works backwards, reconstructing with aplomb the particulars of their friendship which inspired such a remarkable work of art.

Writing a play based on real figures means striking a difficult balance. You have to avoid using historical particulars as a crutch, especially for characters this well-documented (it's a rare month when there is not some retrospective on either artist). On the other hand, deviate too far from fact and you risk rendering the characters unrecognisable, or worse, affectless. With the challenge of depicting a friendship infinitely more than the sum of its parts, Mensch had to make a strong case that it could add to the reams of material already in the public consciousness, when the art already speaks so well for itself.

And it makes that case with ease. Whilst the archetypal artistic process, which comprises hours of intense concentration is, broadly speaking, antithetical to the boldness of theatre, Mensch communicates it rivetingly – even with a short runtime and confined setting which could have made it feel more like a maquette than a full-sized work. The impeccable pacing made sure no element outstayed its welcome, whilst the immaculate set was immersive to the point of feeling like we ought to apologise for not taking our shoes off at the door. It provided intimate, if brief, access to the nuances of their relationship – topless posing, chain-smoking and all.

“The impeccable pacing made sure no element outstayed its welcome”

At times, the play felt unsure about whether to hone in on the specificity of the friendship between Freud and Auerbach or to render it universal, and sometimes finer details were lost in favour of broader brushstrokes. Palombella’s Freud proved immediately captivating, with the sort of wit that could strip paint, and deft physical comedy which leavened what could otherwise have been a uniformly serious play, though it often relegated the character’s motivations to mere cipher. Rafael Griso also turned in a strong performance as the surly workaholic Auerbach, whose prickliness dissolves into moments of heartbreaking vulnerability (often delivered in slightly stilted, unsubtitled German – though never enough to the effect that the sentiment was in doubt). The intensity of his character never wavers, relentlessly embodying the tortured artist and leaving the audience without meaningful release.

Though the actors had a natural familiarity with the space, with lucid, dynamic blocking courtesy of Max Mason’s excellent direction, this felt less the case regarding each other. Whilst their opening pleasantries and shop-talking felt lived-in, the darker subject matter, such as Auerbach’s personal demons, were often out of step, introduced without pretext and lingering unresolved. Painting as proxy for individual memory was powerfully explored, with Auerbach declaring over voiceover that art “is the only way to get power over the things we love,” but although the tension throughout (both physical and otherwise) was pitch-perfect this often came at the expense of moments of openness which tended to hamper insight into the arcs of the characters themselves.

“Palombella’s Freud proved immediately captivating”

Mensch’s script is, in its purest sense, a dialogue on friendship. Through bickering and interruptions, character portraiture through well-considered monologue, and moments of compassion, the artistic process unfolded before us, in media res, without beginning nor end. Palombella’s Freud and Griso’s Auerbach are profiled in awkwardness, and, like the audience, are never entirely at ease with themselves or their idiosyncrasies. Whilst the script provides a platform for director Max Mason to put the contrast between the scenes in sharp relief (which are as subtle in their distinction as they remain engaging through their brevity), we are at times left hoping for a greater springboard to unveil their personality – particularly Auerbach's.

This said, the comedic moments were well-placed. There was a tenderness to the script’s undulation, and a precision in its more heightened moments, particularly when the dialogue subsided in place of diegetic music. In a play professed to concern itself with form, its triptych structure – moving between sections of naturalistic back-and-forth and others of a more impressionist flavour – was particularly pertinent.

For a play about artists so thrillingly anarchic and radical, it’s hard not to feel a little short-changed by Mensch. The modernist touches – the elliptical, Beckettian dialogue, the smattering of Pinter pauses – serve as cursory gestures that contribute little to the play’s core. The imbalance between the conventional dialogue and the more abstract sequences left us with the sense that, unlike the convictions of the characters, the play was unwilling to commit entirely to one tack and deliver a complete work that could have been genuinely striking and new. Yet in a wonderful act of restraint, the art produced by the two itself is never shown, but only ever hinted at; it is simply an after-image. Mensch is cryptic to the close; even though Auerbach’s art is never finished in the duration of the play, perhaps the play itself is art enough.

‘Mensch’ is showing at Queens’ Fitzpatrick Hall from Thursday 27 February until Saturday 1 March, at 8pm.