I’m going to say this plainly: “Blink” is the best episode of Doctor Who I have ever seen. It contains almost no Doctor. Its hero is a young woman we’ve never met and will probably never see again. It cost about nine pounds and was made to fill a gap in the production schedule. And it is a flawless, terrifying, perfectly engineered hour of television that I suspect people will still be talking about in twenty years.
Sally Sparrow
Our lead is Sally Sparrow, played by Carey Mulligan, who breaks into a derelict house called Wester Drumlins because she likes old things and finds, under a peeling strip of wallpaper, a message. It’s a warning. It’s addressed to her by name. It’s signed by the Doctor. And it was written in 1969.
Mulligan is tremendous — curious, dry, frightened but not helpless, the kind of protagonist who runs toward the mystery and then handles it sensibly once she’s in it. Making the audience surrogate a complete stranger rather than the Doctor is the boldest choice here, and it works because Sally is good enough company to carry the whole thing. She has one of the best throwaway lines the show has produced, too, when she’s asked why she’s sad and says that sad is happy for deep people. She’s a delight.
Where the previous Doctor-lite experiment in Love & Monsters swung wildly and connected about half the time, this one never puts a foot wrong. Same constraint, wildly different result — and the difference is that “Blink” turns the Doctor’s absence into the actual engine of the plot rather than a gap to be worked around.
The Lonely Assassins
And then there are the Angels. My God, the Angels.
The concept is so clean it feels like it has always existed. They are quantum-locked: they cannot move while they are being observed, so in the presence of any living thing they become stone statues, harmless and inert. Look away, and they cross the room. Blink, and they’re on you. They are the fastest, deadliest things in the universe and you can stop them completely just by staring — until your eyes water.
It’s the rare monster that turns the act of watching television into a physical experience. You start noticing your own blinking. You start distrusting statues. And the direction is brutally disciplined about it — no transformation shots, no CGI reveals, just a hard cut and the thing is suddenly six feet closer with its hands away from its face and its mouth open. The scene in the cellar where they advance in the strobing torchlight is one of the most frightening things this show has ever filmed. What makes them work on a shoestring is that they’re barely an effect at all. They are performers standing very still in stone make-up, and the camera simply cuts. No budget was harmed in the making of the scariest monster of the decade. The horror lives entirely in the edit and in your own inability to stop watching, which is the cleverest possible answer to having no money.
Even better, they don’t kill you. They send you back in time and let you live to death, feeding on the energy of the life you would otherwise have had. It’s a beautifully cruel idea — a monster that murders you with a long, complete, ordinary existence somewhere you never wanted to be.
Timey-Wimey
The plot is a machine, and every gear meshes. Sally’s friend Kathy is touched by an Angel and wakes up in 1920, where she lives a full life, marries, has children — and arranges for a letter to be hand-delivered to Sally by her own grandson at the precise moment she vanishes. A young policeman, Billy Shipton, is sent to 1969, builds a career in publishing, and meets Sally again the same night she met him, as a dying old man in a hospital bed. The gap between his two scenes is about four minutes of screen time and an entire human lifetime, and it is quietly devastating.
The Doctor, meanwhile, is stranded in 1969 with Martha and communicates the only way he can: as a hidden Easter egg on seventeen unrelated DVDs, appearing to hold up his side of a conversation with someone he can’t see. The reveal of how that works is the single most satisfying bit of plotting in the series’ history — Larry is transcribing the Doctor’s half, Sally is speaking the other half, and the transcript in Larry’s hands is the transcript Sally will eventually hand to the Doctor so he knows what to say. A closed loop with no loose ends, and the show is confident enough to let the Doctor shrug at it: time isn’t a straight line, it’s a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff.
There’s a lovely joke buried in the Doctor’s predicament as well. Stranded in 1969 without his ship, the cleverest being in the universe is reduced to leaving cryptic messages on home video and hoping somebody watches the special features. He spends the entire episode at the mercy of a stranger he hasn’t met yet, which is a very satisfying inversion — for once he’s the one who needs rescuing, and the only way he can ask for help is by post.
Moffat has form for this. The time windows of The Girl in the Fireplace played similar games with the same obvious delight in structure, and the creeping dread of The Empty Child proved he could terrify a nation of children with one repeated phrase. “Blink” welds both instincts together and is easily the tightest thing he’s built — the horror and the clockwork locked so closely that neither would function without the other. Nothing is arbitrary. Every apparent coincidence turns out to be causation running backwards.
Don’t Blink
The climax is beautifully simple. Sally and Larry, trapped in the cellar with the TARDIS and four Angels closing in, the lights failing, nothing to defend themselves with except their own eyes. And the resolution requires no weapon at all: the TARDIS dematerialises out from between them, and the Angels — lunging inward from four directions — are left staring directly at one another. Quantum-locked by their own nature, frozen forever by the only thing that can stop them. It’s elegant, it’s funny, and it’s the perfect use of an established rule.
Then the coda, which curdles everything. A montage of statues — in parks, in churchyards, outside your window — while Sally’s voice reminds us that they could be anywhere, and that the only defence is to keep looking. It’s a closing gag and a genuine threat at the same time, and it sends you to bed uneasy.
What Blink Leaves Us With
A masterpiece assembled out of a production problem. Here’s what it plants:
- The Weeping Angels. A monster built entirely out of a rule the audience has to obey too. Instantly the best new creation of the revived series, and one of the great screen monsters full stop.
- Death by lost life. Not killed but displaced, and consumed by the years you’ll never get. A far more haunting fate than extermination.
- A perfect closed loop. The DVD Easter egg conceit is flawless plotting — a paradox that’s genuinely satisfying rather than a cheat.
- A hero who isn’t the Doctor. Sally Sparrow carries an entire episode of the show without him and never once feels like a substitute.
- Restraint as horror. No gore, no transformation effects, barely any music in the worst moments. Just a statue that’s closer than it was.
Rating: 5/5 — Perfect. Tightly plotted, genuinely frightening, emotionally sharp, and made with almost nothing. If someone has never watched Doctor Who and wants one episode to explain why the rest of us are like this, it’s this one.
Don’t blink. Don’t even blink. Blink and you’re dead. I’ve been checking the garden ornaments all evening and I’m not entirely joking.