There are plenty of stories about stalkers, and there are plenty of stories about obsessive individuals whose view of the world is warped from a ‘typical’ viewpoint. Yet what makes Blink so fascinating is that it takes these obsessions, these ideas about wanting to be seen and wanting to see, and turns it into something darkly comic, as two socially awkward individuals, both isolated from society, find solace in each other without direct contact.
Phil Porter’s script offers an intriguing premise, and it is one that completely lands in director Simon Paris’s fresh, screen-laden revival. The production centres upon freshly redundant Sophie (Abigail Thorn), grieving the loss of her father and feeling distinctly invisible, even to the extent that individuals sit on her on the Tube, not realising she is there. Alongside Sophie is Jonah (Joe Pitts), fresh from leaving a Presbyterian commune, with a completely alien understanding of the world, which in turn becomes a point of fascination for the mercurial character. While Sophie lives in the flat above Jonah (which she also owns), the pair have never exchanged conversation or even glances until one day when Sophie sends Jonah a WiFi camera, streaming her ‘live’ from her flat.
There is nothing particularly sordid in this, and certainly no kind of sexual gratification, at least not from Sophie, in this act, but rather a more poignant desire to feel seen and heard in a world that seemingly forgets her existence. It is a parasocial relationship, absurd in its construct but not in its delivery. There is great humour in the concept, but it is not a mocking one. Blink certainly does not take itself too seriously, with gags and one-liners nodding to the bizarre nature of the pair’s relationship, with its dark humour being its significant strenght in evoking a sense of unease that never truly shifts between the pair or within the audience.
Thorn’s depiction of Sophie is terrifically fragile, and there is an immediate likability to her character, from her nods and smiles to the audience through to her awkward vulnerability hearing her redundancy. Thorn deliberately underplays much of Sophie’s movements and dialogue in a way that keeps the focus on her, much like it is for Jonah. Here, Simon Paris’s direction really impresses, as the pair are coordinated across the stage in a way that means for large parts of the piece, they do not even coexist in the same part of the stage.
Pitts’ Jonah, meanwhile, is inflammatory in ideology but not in character. His view that the colour of someone’s skin reflects the colour of their blood is not bigotry but a sign of misinformation, representative of his time, isolated from the world in his commune, with his arrival in the real world, one that is naive and fresh-faced. Jonah enjoys being an observer and uses observation as a form of intimacy that often lands him in trouble or puts him in compromising situations, such as hiding in a bush to watch a consultant’s son play cricket. These moments are played for laughs, but Pitts does a great job of blending Jonah’s character between a gormlessly sweet naivity with a touch of something more sinister, adding to the complexity of the pair’s interactions.
It is when Sophie is mangled, run over by a car while chasing a vision of her deceased father, that the piece pivots. Jonah immerses himself more into Sophie’s life and rehabilitation, which forces a more intimate, physical bond between them, but it is one that feels artificial and flawed. Both Thorn and Pitts are impressive here in maintaining the awkwardness between the pair even within this newfound intimacy, a nod to the notion that they were much better as an estranged fascination rather than anything legitimate.
Furthermore, Emily Bestow’s design, with its scattering of screens and a small, transparent couch, hints at something both futuristic and hollow. The screens add to the voyeurism between the pair, with Jonah’s first ‘screening’ of Sophie’s life being a darkly funny and unsettling moment that catapults the play into something much more intriguing. At just over 75 minutes, the play should not work with such a slow-burning exposition, yet there is something completely compelling and enthralling about watching the pair’s life pan out and slowly weave together, which mirrors the intoxicating effect that watching Sophie has on Jonah.
By the conclusion, the pair are forced to reconcile with the artificiality of their relationship, and how its construct, perhaps, was more intriguing than its realisation. It is a bleak conclusion, and one that reminds us about the importance of physical connection, yet in an age where digital relationships are on the rise, and more and more people are finding comfort among AI chatbots, perhaps Porter’s play is a stark warning about where society is, or could be, heading.
