Punch, the Story of Jacob Dunne: A Journey Toward Forgiveness on Two Stages
I’ve seen Punch twice — first on Broadway, and later in London’s West End. The same play, the same story, but two very different Jacobs. Will Harrison in New York and David Shields in London each gave a performance that stayed with me long after the curtains went down. Both left me walking out of the theatre thinking not just about the tragedy of a single punch, but about the quiet miracle of restorative justice — the kind of human repair that’s almost never shown truthfully in the media.
The True Story Behind Punch
Punch is based on the real story of Jacob Dunne, a teenager from Nottingham who, on a Saturday night out with friends, threw a single, impulsive punch. That punch killed James Hodgkinson, a young man he didn’t even know. Jacob went to prison for manslaughter. When he got out, he was lost — directionless, ashamed, angry at himself.
But James’s parents, Joan and David, reached out through a restorative justice programme. They asked to meet the man who killed their son. That meeting — raw, painful, and transformative — became the emotional core of Dunne’s life story and of this play.
What Punch explores isn’t crime and punishment, but what happens after punishment. What happens when people try to build something from the wreckage — to face each other, to speak truth, to forgive if they can.
Seeing Punch on Broadway
I first saw Punch on Broadway, where Will Harrison took on the role of Jacob. The staging was lean and unflinching — a world built from concrete, sound, and silence. From his first line, Harrison radiated guilt and restlessness. His Jacob wasn’t swaggering or boastful; he was broken from the start, a young man still trapped inside the moment that destroyed two families.
Will Harrison: Guilt Made Flesh
Harrison’s performance had a kind of trembling intensity that never let up. His Jacob spoke as if every word cost him something. The play opens with him addressing a support group, recounting his past, and Harrison delivered those lines like someone confessing rather than performing.
When the fatal punch came — quick, shocking, almost accidental — the entire theatre flinched. Harrison’s Jacob froze, eyes wide, disbelief settling over him like fog. From there, the play became a study in internal collapse.
The second act, built around Jacob’s meeting with the parents of his victim, was where Harrison’s quiet power really landed. His body seemed to shrink as he faced Joan and David, played by Victoria Clark and Sam Robards. Clark’s Joan carried the ache of someone who has lived too long with loss; Robards’s David seethed with the restraint of a man doing everything not to explode.
That meeting scene — no music, no escape — was devastating. When Joan finally asked Jacob, “Why?” Harrison’s silence was answer enough.
It’s rare to see Broadway theatre handle this kind of moral complexity with such honesty. Harrison, Clark, and Robards grounded every emotion in truth. The result was raw, uncomfortable, and deeply moving.
The West End: A Different Jacob
The following week, I saw Punch again — this time in London’s West End, with David Shields as Jacob. The set and structure were familiar, but Shields gave the role an entirely different energy.
Where Harrison’s Jacob was already fractured, Shields’s Jacob was still trying to hold himself together. His performance traced the full arc from arrogance to remorse. The first act buzzed with restless bravado: the pubs, the banter, the friends, the thrill of being untouchable. Shields made Jacob charming, even funny at times — which only made the collapse that followed feel sharper and more tragic.
David Shields: A Slow, Burning Transformation
Shields built Jacob’s transformation from the inside out. You could see it in the way he carried his body — shoulders tightening, voice softening, movements slowing as guilt settled in. By the second act, when Jacob meets Joan and David, Shields had stripped every ounce of performance away. What was left was a man emptied out.
Julie Hesmondhalgh (Joan) and Tony Hirst (David) were extraordinary in the London production. Hesmondhalgh’s Joan was fierce but fragile, her grief still raw, her compassion hard-earned. Hirst’s David carried quiet fury; you could feel the tension between wanting answers and wanting revenge.
The meeting between Jacob and James’s parents in the West End version was suffused with silence — not the Broadway stillness of shock, but a quieter, more reflective stillness. Shields played Jacob as someone desperate to be seen not as an excuse, but as a human being trying to understand himself.
When the lights faded, no one clapped right away. We just sat there.
A Story That Refuses to Simplify
What makes Punch remarkable — and what connects both productions — is its refusal to give us a neat redemption story. Jacob doesn’t “redeem” himself. Joan and David don’t simply “forgive.” The play doesn’t let anyone off easy. It shows that forgiveness, if it comes at all, is not the end of grief but part of it.
It’s also grounded in social realism. The first act paints Nottingham not as a caricature of “rough Britain,” but as a living, breathing world — estates, clubs, jobs, missed chances. The play never excuses Jacob’s actions, but it insists we look at the environment that shapes them.
That balance — personal accountability alongside social context — is what gives Punch its weight. It’s a story that feels painfully real because it is real.
The One-Punch Tragedy and Its Ripples
At its core, Punch is about the irreversible consequences of a single impulse. Jacob’s punch kills James, and the shock waves ripple through every life on stage. But what the play captures most powerfully is what happens after — the years of silence, the guilt that festers, the grief that never fades.
The characters of Joan and David, based on James Hodgkinson’s real parents, show us the emotional cost of choosing restorative justice. They’re not saints; they’re broken people searching for meaning in the unthinkable. When they ask to meet Jacob, it’s not for closure — it’s for understanding.
That meeting doesn’t erase their pain. It doesn’t fix Jacob. But it does allow something unexpected: the possibility of change, of seeing one another as human again.
In both productions, that moment was the same — three people, sitting across from each other, breathing the same air, sharing the unbearable. No speeches, no resolution. Just honesty.
The Power of Realism
Both versions of Punch succeed because of their restraint. The set design by Anna Fleischle uses bare concrete walls and steel walkways — part prison, part memory. The lighting by Robbie Butler and sound design by Alexandra Faye Braithwaite shape the emotional rhythm: pounding club beats fade into silence, echoing corridors blend into Jacob’s thoughts.
On Broadway, the pacing was taut, the transitions between past and present abrupt — a reflection of Jacob’s fragmented memory. In London, those shifts were slower, more meditative, as if Jacob were piecing together his own story in real time.
Both choices work. Both feel true.
Restorative Justice on Stage
The heart of Punch lies in how it depicts restorative justice — not as a slogan, but as a fragile, human process that demands courage from everyone involved.
- For Jacob, it’s the moment he stops hiding behind the word “accident” and admits what he did. Prison punished him, but it didn’t change him. Facing Joan and David does.
- For Joan and David, it’s a reclamation of agency. They can’t undo their loss, but they can seek understanding. Their decision to meet Jacob isn’t about forgiving him — it’s about confronting the truth on their own terms.
- For the audience, it’s an education in empathy. The play doesn’t moralise; it simply places us in a room with these people and asks us to listen.
During both performances I attended, you could feel the audience collectively lean forward as the meeting scene unfolded. The silence wasn’t polite — it was reverent, uneasy, real.
Shields vs. Harrison: Two Jacobs, Two Truths
It’s impossible to pick a definitive Jacob because both actors exposed different sides of the same man.
Will Harrison (Broadway) delivered urgency. His Jacob was guilt personified — every word trembling, every breath heavy with regret. Watching him felt like watching a man try, and fail, to forgive himself in real time.
David Shields (West End) gave depth. His Jacob’s transformation was gradual, each emotional layer peeling back over two hours. Shields showed not just guilt, but growth — a hard-won acceptance that came only after every other defence had collapsed.
If Harrison made you feel Jacob’s pain, Shields made you understand it. Both performances are worth seeing; together, they form a complete portrait of what remorse really looks like.
What Punch Gets Right
Both productions share key strengths that make Punch such an essential piece of theatre:
- Emotional honesty. The writing never indulges in melodrama. It respects the audience’s intelligence and the real people behind the story.
- Extraordinary acting. Every performer works with restraint and precision. Even silence becomes its own form of dialogue.
- Social realism without preaching. The play acknowledges systemic failings — class, education, opportunity — but never uses them as excuses.
- Respect for reality. Because it’s based on true events, the creative team avoids sensationalism. Everything feels grounded.
- Hope without sentimentality. The play doesn’t promise healing. It simply shows that healing can begin.
Where It Falters (Slightly)
Both versions suffer, in small ways, from pacing issues in Act One. The early scenes that establish Jacob’s world — his friends, his nights out, the social context — occasionally move too fast or too slow, blurring transitions between narration and memory.
On Broadway, a few moments leaned into explanation rather than trust — as if the play wanted to make sure the audience understood the “message.” But Punch doesn’t need to teach; it needs only to show. Thankfully, it quickly finds its footing again.
Why Punch Matters Now
In a time when crime stories are often reduced to heroes and villains, Punch insists on complexity. It asks: what if justice isn’t about punishment, but understanding?
It also reminds us that restorative justice is not about erasing harm — it’s about acknowledging it, living with it, and still choosing to see the humanity in others.
Watching Joan and David confront Jacob is witnessing moral bravery. Watching Jacob face them is witnessing transformation. The play doesn’t idealise anyone; it just tells the truth about what it costs to sit across from pain and stay there.
That’s what makes Punch extraordinary — it gives justice a human face.
Two Cities, One Message
Seeing Punch in two cities was like seeing two mirrors facing each other.
In New York, it felt universal — a story about guilt, accountability, and compassion that transcends borders. The audience reacted as if they were watching a confession unfold live.
In London, it felt local — rooted in British class structures, Nottingham slang, and the realism of a community wrestling with violence. Yet the emotions were the same. Both audiences sat in stunned silence when it ended, reluctant to move.
That shared stillness says everything.
The Takeaway
I walked out of Punch both times changed — not in a cinematic, life-altering way, but in a quiet, lasting one. It reminded me that justice isn’t something done to people; it’s something built between them.
Whether you see Will Harrison on Broadway or David Shields in the West End, you’ll witness performances that are raw, human, and unforgettable. You’ll see grief, guilt, and forgiveness laid bare with restraint and truth. You’ll see a story that refuses to give up on anyone, even when it could.
Final Verdict
If you get the chance, go see Punch.
It’s one of the rare plays that faces the full, uncomfortable complexity of harm and healing — and finds beauty in the process. It’s a reminder that restorative justice isn’t about easy forgiveness, but about honesty, accountability, and the courage to try again.
In a time when headlines flatten real lives into statistics, Punch restores depth, empathy, and humanity.
It’s not just theatre. It’s a lesson in what it means to be human.
Highly recommended.
Author: Jim Simon, Chief Executive Officer, Restorative Justice Council