Blink Review | King’s Head Theatre Islington

Sarah
7 hours ago
3 min read

★★★★

Two people on stage, one sitting on a transparent chair, the other standing animatedly. Background shows abstract, colourful screens. — Abigail Thorn and Joe Pitts Photo credit Charlie Flint

Some shows invite you in gently, almost cautiously — and Blink is very much one of them. Phil Porter’s quietly offbeat love story unfolds with a delicacy that feels perfectly suited to the intimacy of the King’s Head Theatre. What initially appears to be an awkward rom-com slowly reveals itself as something far more layered: a meditation on grief, solitude, and the strange ways people reach for connection when traditional routes feel impossible.

I’ll be honest from the outset: parts of this play were unexpectedly difficult to watch. The storyline touches on the loss of a kind, gentle father and the slow, painful task of sorting through a loved one’s belongings. That hit particularly close to home for me, as I’ve been gradually doing exactly that with my dad’s things — including over this last weekend. Had I known beforehand that this would form part of the narrative, I might have hesitated to review. Theatre has a funny way of catching you emotionally off guard like that. But perhaps that’s also where its power lies.

At its heart, Blink explores watching and being watched — voyeurism in its quietest, most human form. In a world of livestreams, security cameras and curated online lives, the play examines how observation can become a substitute for real connection. Alongside that sits the idea of breaking free: from grief, from loneliness, and from the self-imposed prisons we build when life feels overwhelming. Rehabilitation — emotional, social, and deeply personal — emerges as one of the play’s most moving threads.

This is a true two-hander, and what a pair to carry it. Abigail Thorn and Joe Pitts deliver beautifully detailed performances, each slipping seamlessly into additional characters with skill and clarity. The transitions are fluid rather than showy, allowing the storytelling to remain the focus. Both actors convey an aching loneliness that feels utterly believable; you sense the emotional weight each character carries long before they articulate it. Thorn brings a restless warmth to Sophie, capturing the push-and-pull between resilience and vulnerability, while Pitts makes Jonah deeply recognisable in his awkward stillness and tentative hope.

What makes the piece particularly compelling is the strange, fragile relationship that develops between Sophie and Jonah. It’s tender and awkward, at times sweet, and occasionally troubling — a connection built in unconventional circumstances that feels both inevitable and precarious. As their relationship develops, it’s less about conventional romance and more about two people tentatively learning how to exist in the presence of another human being. There’s something heartbreakingly believable in the way they communicate: hesitant, slightly mismatched, but fuelled by genuine yearning. The connection they build feels fragile from the outset, and watching it shift — strengthening in small moments before quietly unravelling — becomes the emotional core of the piece.

The video design plays a crucial role. Multiple close-up shots of Sophie’s face appear throughout the production, creating an almost fragmented portrait of her inner life. These projections feel intimate yet distancing at the same time — magnifying micro-expressions while reinforcing the idea that Sophie is constantly mediated through a screen rather than encountered directly. It’s an effective visual metaphor for digital intimacy: we see more detail than ever, yet somehow understand less.

Thankfully, the play isn’t relentlessly heavy. There’s a gentle thread of humour woven throughout — awkward social moments, unexpected observations, and small flashes of warmth that provide much-needed relief. These lighter beats stop the production from tipping into bleakness and instead highlight the characters’ vulnerability and hope.

The creative approach is refreshingly restrained. With minimal spectacle, the focus remains firmly on performance and text, allowing Porter’s writing to breathe. The result is an intimate, emotionally precise production that lingers long after the final moment.

Despite the emotional sting it carried for me personally, Blink is exactly the kind of intimate theatre the King’s Head does so well — thoughtful, quietly funny, and deeply compassionate. It gently nudges you to think about loneliness in the modern world, how we reach for connection in imperfect ways, and the courage it takes to step back into life after grief. It’s tender, a little unsettling, and ultimately very human. I left feeling moved, slightly fragile, but also grateful for a piece that treats its characters with such softness.

Booking & Production Details

Blink runs at King’s Head Theatre, 116P Upper Street, Islington Square, N1 1QP

from 19 February – 22 March 2026.

Tickets from £10.🌐 www.kingsheadtheatre.com☎️ 0207 226 8561

Cast & Creatives

Sophie: Abigail Thorn

Jonah: Joe Pitts

Writer: Phil Porter

Director: Simon Paris

Designer: Emily Bestow

Lighting Designer: Peter Small

Sound Designer: Sam Glossop