Estranged siblings gather at the bedside of a dying parent. Crushed dreams have an inextricable hold on the family. A dying town symbolizes those dashed hopes. The most charismatic character delivers an amazingly self-aware monologue summing up everyone’s problems including her own.
Jez Butterwoth’s The Hills of California, now at the Broadhurst after a hit run in London, has all these familiar tropes and yet it’s a stunningly satisfying piece of theater, thanks to Butterworth’s incisive portrayal of a shattered family (despite the recognizable storyline), Sam Mendes’s insightful direction, a powerhouse, versatile cast (many play dual contrasting roles), and dazzling set and costume design by Rob Howell.
As noted, a plot summary will sound remarkably like such Broadway favorites as Beth Henley’s Crimes of the Heart, Tracey Letts’s August: Osage County, Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa, and even Sondheim, Styne, and Laurents’s Gypsy. In rundown 1976 Blackpool, the Webb sisters reunite at the shabby family-run hotel the Seaview (where there is no view of the sea). The off-stage mother Veronica is dying in an upstairs bedroom, all of which are named for states in the far-off dream world of the US.
Youngest daughter Jill (Helena Wilson, brilliant at desperation) has never left Veronica’s side and remains a virgin. Frustrated Ruby (endearing Ophelia Lovibond) and perpetually enraged Gloria (spectacularly shrewish Leanne Best) are trapped in unhappy marriages to alcoholic Dennis (Bryan Dick) and milquetoast Bill (Richard Short) respectively. Missing is the eldest sibling Joan (a remarkable Laura Donnelly), absent from the family for 20 years with no communication, now living in their idealized land of California. In another dramatic echo, the Webbs are like Chekhov’s Three Sisters, longing for the Golden State in America rather than Moscow.
The family's tragic past is revealed in flashbacks to the mid-50s when Veronica (also Donnelly in a totally different characterization) maniacally drilled her girls into a close-harmony quartet, modeled on the out-of-fashion Andrews Sisters. Mendes, Howell and lighting designer Natasha Chivers accomplish the time shift through a breathtaking piece of staging involving a revolving set and teen-aged actresses to play the sisters. Nancy Alsop, Nicola Turner, Sophia Ally and especially Lara McDonnell as the younger Joan deliver accomplished performances as the girls. They sharply convey the beginnings of the traits which mark their elder counterparts—Joan’s rebelliousness, Gloria’s envy, Jill’s and Ruby’s hunger for affection.
Veronica is at the latest in a long line of monster mothers, much like Mama Rose in Gypsy, Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie, and Phyllis in Paula Vogel’s Mother Play from last season. Like her dramatic predecessors, Veronica is a driven woman, determined to escape her ramshackle circumstances and the betrayal of a long-absent husband. Also like the aforementioned anti-heroines, she indulges in comfortable illusions, inventing a past (the exact details of the alleged death of her man in World War II keep changing) and banking on an unlikely future.
In an exemplary ensemble, Donnelly stands out in a remarkable dual performance. Her Veronica is a bulldozer, running down anyone who gets in the way of her dream of stardom for her daughters and willing to sacrifice anyone or anything, even one of the girls, to get the remaining three on stage. Then she makes a third-act entrance as the drugged-out adult Joan, finally arriving from America for her mother’s last moments, and she’s a completely different person, though you can see traces of the sparkling young potential star played by McDonell. Like her mother, this Joan has been through the mill, though a totally different one from Veronica. Her tired, California-inflected voice speaks of a thousand unsuccessful auditions, miles of touring with third-rate bands, and decades of disappointment.
Director Sam Mendes juggles multiple storylines and characters so expertly that it’s always clear what’s going on, despite the thick regional British accents. The musical staging for the girls’ earnest but hopelessly amateur act is perfectly provided by choreographer Ellen Kane. Nick Powell’s sound design and original music create the appropriate nostalgic mood.
In addition to those already mentioned in the cast, there is memorable work from Ta’Rea Campbell as a compassionate caregiver, Richard Lumsden as a crude piano tuner and the sisters’ long-suffering accompanist, and David Wilson Barnes as a slick agent.
Though Hills of California has echoes of many previous dysfunctional family dramas, it sings with a voice of its own and is a highlight of the new fall Broadway season.
