Phil Porter’s Blink tells us from the outset that it’s a love story, though it quickly becomes apparent that this particular romance sits far outside the usual lines. Both unsettling and unexpectedly tender, this beautifully crafted two-hander pulls the audience into its strange, delicate world and keeps us hooked from start to finish.
We meet Sophie and Jonah with their backstories laid out plainly before us. Their upbringings couldn’t be more different, yet both share a deep-rooted grief that has nudged them to the fringes of London, and the fringes of meaningful connection. Neighbours by coincidence and landlord and tenant by circumstance, they are each navigating life with a quiet, aching loneliness.
At its centre, Blink is a story of consensual stalking, an oxymoron that sounds absurd until Porter’s measured writing slowly gives it shape. Jonah watches Sophie because she wants him to; Sophie encourages the watching because she finally feels noticed. On stage the situation unfolds with careful precision, each moment drawing us deeper into the odd intimacy forming between them. As their separate routines begin to overlap, it starts to resemble something like a successful relationship, with Sophie enjoying the sense of being seen and Jonah eager to give her exactly that.
But when the story takes its sharp turn, Jonah is pushed into a far more active role in Sophie’s life. The dynamic between them shifts, the dependency deepens and the boundary between affection and dysfunction grows increasingly blurry. One of the great joys of Blink is how it constantly forces us to reassess where we stand. Something sweet becomes unsettling; something unsettling becomes strangely moving. The play gives us no easy answers, and that’s entirely the point.
Emily Bestow’s set, with its bank of screens echoing the baby monitor Jonah uses, cleverly ramps up the sense of voyeurism. Combined with a Perspex sofa and a reflective floor, the entire stage feels exposed, making us complicit in the act of watching. Sam Glossop’s sound design subtly steers our emotions without ever feeling intrusive, guiding us through moments of tension, humour and warmth.
The frequent direct address gives the piece its heartbeat. Hearing two contrasting perspectives spoken to us like private confessions draws us closer still, as though we’re becoming co-conspirators in something we’re not quite sure we should support. Porter never trivialises the darker aspects of the story, yet finds genuine humour in the most unexpected places, all made possible because these characters are so well observed.
Abigail Thorn offers a grounded, relatable Sophie whose desire to be watched is both startling and understandable. Joe Pitts, meanwhile, is exceptional as Jonah. He brings a quiet vulnerability and an almost fragile innocence to the role, but never once lets Jonah become a caricature. Pitts charts Jonah’s emotional shifts with remarkable subtlety, capturing his tentative steps towards connection and the messy, earnest devotion that follows. It’s a performance that pulls you in gently but completely; against your better judgement, you may even find yourself rooting for him. Pitts makes Jonah endearing when he absolutely shouldn’t be, and that’s the real magic of both the actor and the writing.
Simon Paris’s direction keeps everything finely balanced, allowing the story to move with purpose without ever rushing its more delicate moments. He handles the play’s complexities with a steady, confident hand.
By the time Blink reaches its conclusion, you may find yourself yearning for this odd pair to make it work, or hoping they escape the quietly toxic patterns they’ve created. At the very least, you’ll walk away conflicted, and that’s the play at its best: it nudges you to interrogate your own instincts about intimacy, boundaries and the messy realities of love. Jonah reminds us that “Love is neither dirty nor clean,” and this clever, unsettling, deeply human story sits exactly in that murky middle ground where real connection often lives.
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