The West End Theatre Review: The Hills of California

By Ross

As she makes her way down the numerous flights of stairs, endless and amazing, The Hills of California, written with clever purpose by Jez Butterworth (The Ferryman), draws us in with the sounds of waves and seagulls. The engagement lifts us to the state of California and its grand expansive shoreline, but the stifled energy and look of the space we are taking in of the stage of the Harold Pinter Theatre couldn’t be further removed. We lean in with curiosity, understanding that it’s the summer of 1976, and the air hangs heavy in this dark room, but not only because of the heat. An unseen mother lays upstairs, slowly but meticulously dying of cancer, as one of her daughters, the meek-looking Jill, played meticulously well by Helena Wilson (Bridge Theatre’s White Noise), who made it down those long flights of stairs, smokes a cigarette in the corner like a naughty librarian. Each drag is taken with some sort of desperation laced with anxiety, before quickly snuffing it out. It seems she feels she must hide the damning evidence before the nurse, played compassionately solid by Natasha Magigi (RSC’s Don Quixote), enters the space. She’s there not to criticize or discipline, but to offer care and an unorthodox way forward and out of the heaviness felt in that thick air.

It’s a tender, thoughtful introduction, slowly descending into a turbulent sea of grief and family dynamics, as sisters reunite in this Blackpool guest house where they all grew up. They have gathered, one by one, to say their goodbyes to a mother who clearly had great impact. The guesthouse has been inaptly named Seaview, although it bears no resemblance to what can be seen from any of the numerous rooms’ windows. “Poetic license“, they say with clever emphasis, unfolding an idea worthy of exploration by the great Butterworth whose play, Jerusalem, is often cited as one of the best plays of the century. Grand aspirations and the reality of the world live side by side in those stately named rooms that echo up high into the dark air, lining the hallways and staircases with dreams and clandestine interactions that seem to go on forever, maybe leading the way up to heaven. Or just to a very hot Alaska.

With Butterworth gloriously reuniting with the esteemed director, Sam Mendes (Broadway/West End’s The Lehman Trilogy), The Hills of California finds compelling weight and fascinating rhythm in this coming together. The idea set forth by the nurse is contemplated, but pushed aside by the one child who has stayed put, adding further weight to the already heavy waiting game afoot. Jill decides in that moment to hold off deciding until all of her sisters arrive. Two of the four siblings turn up almost immediately, entering the public room of the guesthouse carrying the hot exasperated energy of a difficult journey on their shoulders. Each brings a framework and platform that adds tension and electricity to the already heated room, along with companions that elevate and expand their already well-formed characterizations.

One sister, the unseen Joan, who flew off to California years and years ago, remains unaccounted for, lost in plane delays and unanswered letters. Jill , the one who stayed, maybe because she “can’t find the door,” is certain she will arrive as promised. The other two, the sharp-tongued and profoundly resentful Gloria, played to spectacular fashion by Leanne Best (Donmar’s Sweat), and the more tender and endearing, but breathlessly anxious Ruby, played beautifully by Ophelia Lovibond (Sheffield Crucible’s The Effect), are actively doubtful. but from very different angles.

Gloria is one of the more captivating of Butterworth’s creations, at least for the moment, with Butterworth giving her line after line edged with jealousy and filled to overheating with anger, resentment, and frustration, all of which she takes out, somewhat compellingly on her husband, Bill, played by the very astute Shaun Dooley (Park Theatre’s Dinner with Friends) and their two kids, played by Alfie Jackson (“Violin“) and Lucy Moran (Urdang’s Chicago). Dennis, the husband of Ruby, played deliciously by Bryan Dick (NT’s All of Us), floats in and out in a very different ice creamed haze, giving a disconnected but active energy to their stalled and stale relationship. The two men carry little weight in this family’s hostile yet somehow compassionate dynamic, setting up a framework of unfixable understanding. But the two are given more to do later on in different garbs and a different turning time frame.

They wait, in the heat and the tight tension, squabbling and singing as a damaged unit that still cares, letting hints of problematic engagements linger in the hot humid air without really unpacking them for us, just yet. The crumbling of historic Blackpool, a once proud summer resort town in England, is referenced and unpacked, layering its tragedy on the backs of this family and the guest house they once called home. But then, suddenly, a rotation occurs, one that I didn’t see coming. The staircase swings us back into time, returning us to the 1950s, and to an optimistic moment in these sisters’ lives before the roots of resentment and friction became wrapped in the framework of the idolized Andrews Sisters. “A piano must be played“, we are told, and in that compelling rewinding, we are given a detailed seaview look through the drawn curtain that separates family from guest. We see their determined mother, Veronica, played fearlessly and ferociously by the very great Laura Donnelly (Trafalgar Studios’ The Wasp; Broadway’s The Ferryman), navigating and contemplating how to overcome the hurdles before them. This woman will go to almost any lengths to climb over and create something for her girls, and that’s not the only sly dual slant to Donnelly’s exacting performance.

The paralleling is unpacked in style, thanks to the claustraphobically illuminating work of set and costume designer Rob Howell (Old Vic/Broadway’s A Christmas Carol) with meticulous lighting by Natasha Chivers (West End/Broadway’s Prima Facie) and choreography by Ellen Kane (NT’s Dear England), ushering forth, for inspection, the daughters as young girls. Played beautifully by Nancy Allsop as young Gloria, Sophia Ally as young Ruby, Lara McDonnell as young Joan, Nicola Turner as young Jill, the four girl act is being drilled and trained to become a credible sisters singing group by their forceful and focused mother. Donnelly’s Veronica is a fantastically detailed creation, with nuances that never feel trite or overplayed. Assisted by the gentle Joe Fogg, the piano man, played with care by Richard Lumsden (Kiln’s White Teeth), the sisters practice with a focused intent to become the Webb Sisters, a musical act that Veronica hopes will allow her girls to escape. Veronica sees this slim opportunity for freedom, mainly for them, and will hold tight to her boundaries and structures in order to help them get out. 

The formulation is fascinating, balancing both the past and the present in a compelling rotated style that elevates and refocuses the attitudes and understanding we have for these adult sisters. But the tension around the yet-to-arrive Joan lingers heavy in the air. Will she come back to this run-down Sea View Guest House, haunted by a mother’s bittersweet dreams for her daughters, or will she remain in the place she ran away to, living a life these other sisters can only fanticize about? And what was Joan escaping, if that was really the cause for her flight to California? Was it thier mother? Or something quite different? Those are the questions that crackle inside the first two of three Acts of this long play that never feels overwhelming. And when a big-time American agent (Shaun Dooley) comes into town, hustled into that 1950s kitchen by one of Butterworth’s other clever creation, the charming but cash-strapped Jack Larkin (Bryan Dick), an unfolding happens in both time frames that keep this jukebox playing, feeding each other with all the details we need, and giving us another Donnelly framing to fascinatingly lean in to.

It’s a bit of a high-cost family crisis that plays out in the past with the mother and sister Joan taking center stage. It sizzles with unspoken complexities the give captivating side angles to engage with. It’s sung out in one of the rooms upstairs, and folded together with a Godot-like framework that keeps us guessing. When these adult sisters engage, fighting and connecting with one another, the play finds pain and compassion living and breathing inside of hostilities, and when the girls are singing with one another, thanks to the fine work by composer and sound designer/arranger Nick Powell (West End/Broadway’s The Lehman Trilogy) with musical supervision by co-arranger Candida Caldicot (Barbican’s A Strange Loop), the unity feels authentic and completely satisfying, even in the kind but severe way their are mothered and pushed to survive, with Joan being the standout in more ways than just one time period.

With the cancer=ridden mother dying upstairs, and the ‘70s period drama mashed together with the ‘50s formula downstairs, The Hills of California keeps its eyes on the left-outside-on-the-patio prize and finds power in the unfolding plot. I’m being a bit careful to not give away the surprises of Act Three, but they are all well-written and engaging, while also falling a bit flat and undercooked in their harmonies and unraveling. Butterworth is going for something powerfully verbal and engaging, while not falling into overly sentimental family dynamics, and the success of it lies firmly in the hands of these talented actors, mostly the women, who find epic effervescence in both their songs and their squabbles. It lives boldly in its acts of grief, redemption, and forgiveness, giving ample angles to connect to these disappointed women. It might not climb the stairs up to the levels of Butterworth’s other plays, like The Ferryman or the celebrated Jerusalem, but it makes up in performances that are difficult to shake off. Broadway is fortunate to be given their chance this fall to take in the magnificent and poetic Seaview that exists from and inside The Hills of California, even if we can’t see the turbulent water through the emotional trees. 

 At the Harold Pinter theatre, London, until 15 June.