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Initially they pace and stretch cagily like animals in a zoo, exploring the boundaries of their leisure space. It appears as if they are giving the impression of relaxation, conforming to the idea that that's what they're meant to be... after all, they are on holiday.

Comparisons between these characters and Beckett's Vladimir and Estragon are easily made, as nothing seems to happen - but only once this time.

a series of apparently artless, inconsequential dialogues, interspersed with a capella performances of baroque love songs by Schubert, Bononcini or Gluck that excavate the unspoken desires that run beneath the skin of idle conversation.

We watch, with the lone man, a ship pass over the horizon (a video inspired by Simryn Gill’s work Vessel) and for once, the awkward question of self is left behind, absorbed in contemplation.

In its artful artlessness, Holiday reminded me of the anti-spectacle of Jérôme Bel’s beautiful Pichet Klunchun and Myself, which was one of the highlights of last year’s Melbourne Festival. Like Bel, Ranters Theatre achieves a profound and joyous lightness.