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Almeida, London Addiction is a difficult subject to dramatise: it depends on repetition, isolation, an inability to connect with other people. But, although David Eldridge’s moving new play doesn’t avoid all the pitfalls, it greatly heightens our understanding of the addictive personality and shows that dependence, whether on drugs or alcohol, is no respecter of class or status. Eldridge was prompted, in part, by the desire to write a whopping role for Lisa Dillon in which he has certainly succeeded. She gets to play Lucy: a golden girl whose career as a TV children’s-show presenter is cut short when she’s discovered by her producer smoking heroin in her dressing room. We watch as the suspended Lucy, supported by her loving mother and sniped at by her abrasive elder sister, lapses into a state of helpless dependence before winding up in a crisis intervention centre. But the rocky road to recovery not only becomes a test of Lucy’s resilience. It also forces the family to face up to long-buried secrets. “Why has this happened to us?” Lucy’s mother plaintively asks at one point; and the answer, dramatically, comes rather late in the day. But the great virtue of Eldridge’s approach is his painstaking exploration of what addiction entails and his refusal to pass easy moral judgements. Lucy herself is seen neither as pitiable victim nor heroic coper: she is a liar, self-deceiver and ruthless exploiter of her mother’s private wealth but also someone whose recovery hinges on a confrontation with truth. Equally, her mother is ambivalently viewed as both adoring protector and indulgent enabler of Lucy’s habit. Even the icy self-control of her solicitor sister proves to be a camouflage for a deeply damaged psyche. But what really impressed me was that Eldridge never lectures us about the evils of addiction: he simply shows its destructive consequences and suggests its causes are often hereditary rather than environmental. It’s a painful subject but Michael Attenborough’s production, deftly designed by Peter McKintosh, makes it aesthetically bearable and Dillon amply fills a giant role. What she makes clear is that you never quite know which Lucy you are going to see. And she conveys the addict’s fluctuating sense of self in a riveting interview with a psychiatrist in which she moves from snide aggression to desperate neediness. Margot Leicester catches equally well the mother’s mix of smothering love and bewildered exasperation. And Abigail Cruttenden as the steely-seeming sister, Sophie Stanton as a pragmatic carer and Kieran Bew as sundry blokes from druggies to journos all offer vibrant support. I wouldn’t say that, in the end, I love Lucy; but, thanks to Eldridge’s compassionately inquiring play, I begin to understand her. Rating: 4/5 Theatre Michael Billington guardian.co.uk