It is a safe assumption that a play called Pornography is not going to flaunt explicit sexual content, and so it proves in Simon Stephens’s state-of-the-nation drama, first seen at Edinburgh last summer and now debuting in London.

Writing it in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks that hit this city in July 2005, Stephens used pornography as a metaphor for the emptiness of relationships and the alienated consciousness of the iPod generation. His eight characters share little besides their loneliness. Their different stories do not intersect, but thematically they overlap.

There is a screechy schoolboy (Billy Seymour, wonderfully ghastly), nursing a crush on his teacher; a couple who at first seem like long-lost friends, but are, in fact, brother and sister; a solitary widow (the perfectly barbed Sheila Reid); an academic quaffing Merlot with a former student; an office worker tired of her unsmiling boss; and a young man travelling by train to London.

The last of these turns out to be one of the bombers, arrowed towards his explosive destiny. But instead of being the resentful martyr of popular imagination, he is a cool, thoughtful individual, whose greatest grievance seems to be that he can’t buy an almond croissant.

Meanwhile, the others tune in to the corporate dazzle of Live 8, and wait for news of London’s bid to stage the 2012 Olympics, then erupt gleefully — or scathingly— when they learn of its success. Their individual stories evolve, too: the schoolboy’s infatuation becomes septic, the brother and sister tryst incestuously.

Sean Holmes’s direction is fluent, drawing assured performances from the entire cast. But Stephens himself, an agile talent, seems here too detached: his characters don’t fully engage us, and his final redemptive message feels a touch glib.
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