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When I arrived in England years ago for my studies, I was fairly shocked at my new classmates’ drinking. That’s not just because most American undergraduates are legally prohibited from purchasing alcohol until their final year (though the underage find plenty of ways to get drunk too); in Britain I observed a rampant societal blessing to get pissed—from the one-pound-pint specials at the pub to ladies-drink-free nights—that goes much further than in the US.
The drinking culture was no less notable before a recent long weekend in London, from the canned gin and tonics at the lunchtime food truck and the crowds spilling into the street outside pubs at 4:30 p.m., to the clutched White Claws on the tube at 6:30 p.m. and the men in suits staggering around the West End.
That evening I caught the sold-out new play (and one of the hottest tickets in town) The Fifth Step, about the fragile, fractious friendship between a young man beginning an Alcoholics Anonymous program and his elder, seemingly wiser sponsor. The title refers to the part of the 12-step program known as the confession, during which members are encouraged to acknowledge “to God, to oneself, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” Yet alcoholism is merely its ostensible topic; the show is broadly about faith and appetites, holy and otherwise, and how those intersect with power, whether in a pub, bedroom, or church.
Written by David Ireland and directed by Finn den Hertog, The Fifth Step opened in the West End earlier this month after an acclaimed sold-out run in Edinburgh, with Olivier Award–winner Jack Lowden reprising his role as Luka and now joined by Emmy, BAFTA, and SAG Award winner Martin Freeman as James.
It’s a tight 90-minute tête-a-tête set in the round at the plush, newish Soho Place theater, the stage a circle of trust that eventually deteriorates into a literal boxing ring with seesawing power dynamics. Propulsive with chuckles initially and later gasps, it also tackles the oft-fretted-about contemporary crisis of masculinity, particularly in Britain. After all, as James points out clearly and plainly (as most things are conveyed in this play), “The culture we live in, drinking’s associated with masculinity. You go to Paris and Brazil, no one gives a fuck if you’re drinking a chamomile tea.” (Another example: “I get the impression, Luka, that every man who’s ever been in your life has betrayed you. So you have difficulty trusting men. Older men.”)
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Lowden, best known from the Apple TV+ series Slow Horses, delivers an electric, crackling performance. Unlike the (in)competency kink he embodies on that show, he brings a real childlike naivete here, playing a boy told repeatedly that he can’t play with his favorite toys (beer, porn, older married women), combined with a livewire, jittery performance. The striking physicality that some may recognize from his screen work is married with excellent comedic and dramatic instincts; few actors today can check all those boxes so assuredly. (Even Lowden’s wife, Saoirse Ronan, has failed the “don’t say James Bond” challenge.)
Martin Freeman, meanwhile, certainly holds his own as an apparently ever-patient everyman with quick-witted, sarcastic reactions that feel familiar—honed in the British version of The Office as well as the BBC series Sherlock—though with a bit of the menacing nice guy from 2024’s Miller’s Girl.
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But the ideas of the production don’t adhere, preferring to skitter around the perimeter without unearthing any fresh insights and instead taking the titillating road of scandal in the final act—which leaves it oddly unsatisfying for a play about earthly desires. There may be a question about relevance at a time when entire generations are moving away from religion, sex, and drinking (especially those of Luka’s age, in the US at least). And I was surprised to learn the play was published just last year; it feels like it could have been written in the two or three decades before the pandemic, but the years since have seen a real shift in society that I just didn’t feel reflected in the play. That could certainly be something lost in transatlantic cultural translation.
This is no easy play to perform; both actors are onstage for its entirety with literally nowhere to hide. And they nail the masterfully calibrated comedic beats, as well as the final act’s relentless pacing (during which I observed an audience member opposite me actually wipe his brow). It’s enjoyable to watch, but not much lingers besides Lowden’s antic bravura. And that’s a shame—you’d want to discuss it while taking advantage of the plum two-for-one drink special postshow in the lobby.
