Quiet Light, The Bull
Quiet Light at The Bull in Wanstead has been one of my unexpected highlights of this year’s Fringe season. Presented by Pretty Gross Productions and running until Wednesday 24th September, this brief yet powerful production offers a deeply moving and eerie meditation on solitude, grief, and the ghosts we carry with us.
Written by Erin Hutton, Quiet Light begins with a seemingly simple premise: Ray (played with quiet intensity by George Loynes), a seaman, crashes his boat into a rocky island, home to a solitary lighthouse. The lighthouse's only inhabitant is Ava (Isobel Glover in a superbly nuanced performance), a reclusive and skittish young woman with rigid routines and a mysterious past. She claims her mother, who normally shares the lighthouse with her, is away visiting an aunt, though we quickly sense there’s more to this story. Ava lives a life governed by habit and fear. Her breakfast is always the same - two slices of bread with raspberry jam, never anything else. She refuses to touch Ray or come close to him, and her wariness is palpable. With the next supply boat not due for another week, Ray is forced to stay in the lighthouse, and the stage is set for a week of fraught cohabitation between two very different souls, both hiding from the world in their own way.
From the outset, there's a creeping tension. Ava is clearly unused to company, let alone male company and her behaviour is at once unsettled and tragic. Ray, at first simply unnerved, begins to notice odd details: the coffee Ava offers comes from a brand that folded years ago, the lighthouse feels stuck in time. These lighter moments are laced with a subtle sense of foreboding, skilfully planting seeds for the deeper, darker narrative that unfolds. Hints of dystopia ripple through Ray’s accounts of the world beyond the island, riots, unrest, and societal collapse. Yet he clings to the idea that there are still ‘good bits’, trying to coax Ava into imagining life beyond the lighthouse. She, however, has never left nor seen the outside world. She speaks of the mainland with fear and contempt, remarking, ‘I wouldn’t like it on land’. We as the audience and Ray get the sense that her worldview, shaped entirely by isolation and her mother’s influence, is fragile and warped. The play cleverly explores the psychological impact of long-term solitude, how routine becomes ritual and how love, when twisted by fear, can imprison rather than protect.
Hutton’s writing is particularly sharp in its commentary on contemporary issues. The dystopian backdrop never overshadows the central story, but subtly mirrors real-world anxieties: societal breakdown, migration, and our treatment of those on the margins. Ray’s backstory involves smuggling migrants across the sea for money, adding layers of moral complexity and realism to his character. This isn’t just a ghost story, it’s a story about people living on the edge, literally and metaphorically. What begins as a psychological drama slowly dips into the supernatural. Ava is haunted by her mother’s presence in the lighthouse, while Ray begins seeing visions of his deceased wife, Cam (played with haunting delicacy by Holly May Harvey). These spectral visitations are eerie but never overdone. Credit must be given to the lighting team, who use cool blue hues and storm effects to great effect during these moments. The result is more chilling than terrifying. There’s a quiet yet palpable, creeping horror rooted in emotion rather than spectacle.
The production excels in its attention to detail. Director Rio Rose Joubert and producer Ethan McLucas have crafted a tightly woven world where everything, from the strategically place axe to the coffee machine, carries meaning. The eerie rendition of ‘Drunken Sailor’ that echoes during scene transitions adds a subtle layer of unease. The makeup and costume work are equally impressive, particularly the ghostly visual effects and Ray’s injuries. Even the breakfast Ray and Ava share on his first morning in the lighthouse, Ava’s routine two slices of toast with raspberry jam, was subtlety evocative - it made me genuinely crave jam on toast. It’s those small, human details that bring the story to life. What ultimately elevates Quiet Light is how grounded it remains, even while dipping into the supernatural. This is a deeply human play about grief, memory, and the ways we become trapped by loss, by guilt, by routine. Ava’s lighthouse is both a physical and psychological prison, a place where time has stopped and memory reigns. Ray too is stuck, unable to move on from his own past, haunted by what he couldn’t save.
The final act delivers a satisfying and surprising emotional punch, with revelations about the ghosts and the past that deepen rather than cheapen the experience. It’s a testament to the strength of the writing and performances that the play never veers into melodrama, even as it explores the extremes of human emotion. In a small, intimate venue like The Bull, this level of nuance lands powerfully. Quiet Light is visceral, unsettling, and surprisingly tender. It’s a reminder that even in isolation, our connections to people, to memory, to grief, remain stubbornly intact. Thoughtfully written, impeccably acted, and rich in atmosphere, Quiet Light is a must-see for those who appreciate layered, emotionally intelligent storytelling. Don’t miss it.