Post / Shannon Davidson

Mark Lundholm, rehearsing Tuesday at the Ricketson Theater, tells the story of a recovering substance abuser in 'Addicted.'

But that's nothing compared to the courage a drug addict and ex-con named Mark Lundholm exhibits by splitting and spilling his guts for more than two hours at the Ricketson Theater. And that's nothing compared to the courage he showed 14 years ago when he turned his life upward from the nadir of drugs and despair.

After getting clean but before writing "Addicted," Lundholm was a stand-up comedian and motivational speaker who targeted his observations on life and recovery to two separate, specific audiences. He had a laugh-a-minute routine for comedy clubs and a more pointed, scared-straight number for detox and jail audiences. With "Addicted," he has developed a theatrical piece for a general audience, but his direct, colloquial approach may nevertheless be jarring to traditional theater audiences. And that's just what they need.

"I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin' . . ." Lundholm repeats throughout his one-man show that's part self-help, part sermon, part philosophy lecture and part mental surgery without an anaesthetic.

A few might regrettably dismiss "Addicted" as some sort of tragicomic stand-up routine with really good lighting effects. How is one man talking for two hours theater? In all the best ways.

Recently I saw Kevin Bacon perform "An Almost Holy Picture," as a former Episcopal priest who speaks for two hours about how his lifetime of loss has created a distance between himself and God. To succeed, Bacon must emotionally connect with every member of the audience. That's theater, and so is "Addicted." In "The Fantasticks," the longest-running musical in history, we are told, "we must all die a bit before we can grow." That's theater, and so is "Addicted."

The man Lundholm portrays is as complicated as a Neil LaBute misogynist and as Pentecostal as Robert Duvall in "The Apostle." But Lundholm is even more compelling because he is not playing a part. And his story is more dangerous because the life at stake is the man's we see on stage. In that regard, "Addicted " is better than theater.

Lundholm tells how he grew up in a family that wasn't dysfunctional . . . "it was evil. Dysfunctional was the toaster in the kitchen that never worked properly." By the time he was 29 he was a suicidal, ex-con dope dealer who got clean and became a stand-up after an attempted suicide went wrong - or right, depending on your point of view.

In an interview last week, Lundholm said "Addicted" was 80 percent serious and 20 percent comic, but that undersells his consistently funny observations amid terribly poignant stories. Given the overlap, I'd put the ratio at more like 80:70. Lundholm is lousy at math (except for knowing there are 28.35 ounces in a gram of cocaine), so he may appreciate the discrepancy.

You may feel a range of emotions as the evening progresses. Mine started with disgust as Lundholm entered the stage sporting a shaved head, blue jeans and a toothy, devilish grin. His first story is how an attempted carjacking went wrong when the innocent woman he pointed a gun at fought back and won. Good for her, I thought. Immediately I resented the possibility that the only thing that might make this man interesting is his horrible behavior. This isn't a sermon, I thought. It's shock theater.

But it doesn't take long to realize Lundholm is setting us up like so many bowling pins. He doesn't want us to like him at first because the man he describes was unlikable. But soon he is flooring with his disarming wit, naked confessions, colorful storytelling and truthful observations that help us understand not only his mistakes but our own. The more we begin to identify with him, the more of a stake we take in his happy ending.

And it's not really a one-man show, because we meet each of the seven distinct and funny voices in his head, the ones that tell him to eat, hide, relax, grow paranoid, get angry, find a crisis or go play.

At first the audience seems divided between addicts who give themselves away with their knowing nods and staid, distanced theatergoers. All good theater is manipulative, but the best theater manipulates us without our being aware of it. Everyone knows the destructive nature of alcohol, drugs and gambling. But Lundholm's so-called healthy audience members may not be so prepared to face his observations on addictions such as career, food, sleep, fear, coffee, shopping, exercise, porn and the Internet.

Suddenly the room doesn't seem so divided between "addicts" and "the healthy."

As a performance piece, "Addicted" is a lot to take in all at once. It would be more effective with a 15-minute trim, starting with the overuse of his recurring "lanes on the addiction highway" metaphor. But his words are constantly challenging, whether they be his take on why he won't ever give change to the homeless ("It's like giving a scalpel to a baby"), why suicide is inherently selfish ("Where is the courage in a suicide?") and why it was that the morning after Columbine, parents seemed to be nicer to their kids ("Because they were still here").

At the end of his show, Lundholm asks his audience pointedly, "The question is not, "Are you as good as the person next to you?' but, "Are you better than you were 10 years ago? Last month? Yesterday?' "

Answers will vary, but most will honestly be able to say they feel a little better than they did two hours before. And like really good theater and a really thrilling amusement-park ride, it should leave you feeling with a little wave of nervous euphoria, the kind you get when you've just survived something dangerous.

All contents Copyright 2002 The Denver Post or other copyright holders. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed for any commercial purpose.