The Fifth Step - @sohoplace: Martin Freeman and Jack Lowden dazzle in David Ireland’s blistering two-hander

Martin Freeman and Jack Lowden in The Fifth Step. Image by: Johan Persson.

⭑ ⭑ ⭑ ⭑ ⭑ - 90% • 4 minutes 57 second read time

David Ireland’s The Fifth Step, now playing at @sohoplace, is a blistering and brutally funny new play that dives deep into addiction, masculinity, faith, and identity. Performed without an interval and running at 85 tightly wound minutes, it’s a sharp and gripping one-act two-hander that constantly surprises. It’s a play that isn’t afraid to laugh at itself – or at its characters – even as it pushes them towards the edge.

What makes it so successful is the way it carries the weight of its subject matter so lightly. Addiction, trauma, and spiritual struggle are not easy terrain, but Ireland’s writing is laced with wit and absurdity that never undercuts the seriousness of what’s being said – it simply allows the truth to sneak in sideways. There’s a clarity and confidence in the tone that ensures it never buckles under its own themes. Instead, the play feels swift and clean, like a blade – sharp, and just dangerous enough.

The set-up is simple: Luka (Jack Lowden), a recovering addict, meets with his sponsor, James (Martin Freeman), to deliver the “fifth step” of his recovery process – an honest, unfiltered admission of past wrongs. But what begins as a ritualised step of recovery quickly evolves into something more complicated, more psychological, and ultimately more confrontational. This isn’t just confession – it’s excavation.

At its heart, The Fifth Step is about two men trying to find a version of themselves they can live with. It’s a play about the truths we admit to others, the lies we tell ourselves, and the space in between where most people actually live. It’s also, above all else, a comedy. A deeply human, sometimes absurd, often uncomfortable comedy, where the laughs come from the detail of character and the audacity of language.

None of it would work without chemistry, and Freeman and Lowden have it in bucket loads. Theirs is a dynamic that feels both completely spontaneous and deeply lived-in – as though this is the very first time they’ve ever spoken these lines, while also giving the sense that they’ve carried these characters in their bones for years. There’s no ‘acting’ on display here – just two men telling the truth, with humour, vulnerability, and sometimes menace.

Martin Freeman is excellent – a model of quiet, simmering control. Where Lowden’s Luka is a storm, Freeman’s James is a slow burn. At first glance, he’s the picture of calm – measured, reasonable, quietly authoritative. But Freeman, always a master of subtle undercurrents, allows small fractures to show through: a glance held too long, a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, a moment of stillness that feels heavy rather than composed. There’s something coiled inside James that he’s not ready to let out, something darker he’s constantly trying to outrun. And in Freeman’s hands, that internal contradiction becomes riveting.

He has an uncanny ability to flip tone on a dime. One moment, butter wouldn’t melt – the next, he’s prickling with something colder, sharper, harder to define. There’s an ambiguity to the performance that is deeply satisfying: are we watching a man desperately trying to be good, or someone performing goodness because it’s all he has left? Freeman walks that line with immense skill, never tipping too far in either direction.

It’s vital that both performers can meet each other moment for moment – and thankfully, they can. But even with that, it must be said: Jack Lowden delivers a performance that is genuinely extraordinary – restless, raw, and utterly compelling. His Luka is a whirlwind of contradictions: brash yet sensitive, manipulative yet painfully open, a firecracker of a man hiding deep wells of loneliness. It’s a performance of breathtaking control masquerading as chaos. Lowden taps into something elemental – a human being who hasn’t yet learned how to contain his own emotional frequencies, someone whose skin is too thin for the world.

To watch him is to watch a performer in full command of their craft. His physicality is restless but never aimless, his voice capable of flipping from comic exaggeration to aching sincerity in the space of a breath. But more than anything, he taps into something that feels deeply truthful: that we are every age we’ve ever been, all at once. You see Luka as a frightened child seeking comfort, a bristling teenager lashing out to be noticed, and a lost adult desperate for direction – all within the same moment. Lowden lets all these selves live and breathe on stage simultaneously, often without needing to signal the shift. It’s instinctive and full-bodied, a performance that actors will talk about for years to come – and those who miss it will be kicking themselves. It’s one of those turns: a must-see for anyone who cares about acting.

The dynamic between the two characters is magnetic – it feels like a match, or maybe a sparring session. And in that sense, the staging is spot on. Milla Clarke’s design is simple and spare, evoking a boxing ring – or perhaps a tennis court. Each scene is a rally, a volley, a contest of emotional and intellectual wills. Who will win the point? Who will drop the ball? It’s elegantly done, and makes the most of @sohoplace’s in-the-round stage, keeping the focus squarely on the performers, where it belongs.

Ireland’s script is characteristically bold – full of wit, laced with philosophical insight, and often outrageous in its language. There’s a particular pleasure in the way he lets conversations veer off course, into strange and unexpected territory, only to bring them crashing back into relevance. The characters talk like real people – flawed, messy, often inappropriate, but always reaching for something real.

That said, there are moments where Ireland’s penchant for provocation tips into indulgence. There are lines that feel designed to shock for the sake of it, and while The Fifth Step is more measured than Ulster American, it does occasionally fall into that same trap. You’re left wondering if the point could have landed just as well – perhaps even better – without the sharpest corners. Still, it’s a minor quibble in a play that otherwise balances heart and humour so deftly.

At just 85 minutes, it’s perfectly paced. You never feel rushed, but it never overstays its welcome either. It builds and builds, until by the end, you feel you’ve been somewhere real with these men – and you’re left wanting more. Truthfully, I could have watched 85 minutes more. There’s something about watching two actors at the top of their game go toe-to-toe with material this strong – it’s exhilarating, invigorating, and deeply human.

The Fifth Step is a triumph – a funny, ferocious, and emotionally intelligent piece of theatre that gives its actors room to soar. It may be a story about addiction and confession, but what lingers is not just the pain, but the humanity – messy, flawed, contradictory, and very much alive.

Tickets are sold out, so you’ll need to keep an eye out for returns. But make no mistake: this is one worth fighting for.