THE HILLS OF CALIFORNIA Chart a Family’s Act — Review

The best way to enjoy The Hills of California – not that it takes any real effort to do so – is to take it as a long yarn that unfolds across its own soapy, extended timeline. Jez Butterworth’s latest play, directed by Sam Mendes and imported from a London run earlier this year, is never less than compelling, well-executed and performed. But the slightness of its core that’s far from insurmountable, but can incur a modest wince once revealed, about two-thirds of the way into its two-hour-forty-five runtime.

Set in a Blackpool hotel which has seen better days (the “Seaview Guesthouse” has dropped both “luxury” and “spa” from its name by the time we’re introduced to it in 1976), it follows the daughters of its owner, the tough-love matriarch Veronica, as they convene back in their home for her final days. With strong conviction, Veronica had once tried to rally her four girls’ Andrews Sisters-style act (especially Joan, the obvious star) into the big time back in the ‘50s. 

So the fact the group never took off doesn’t seem to weigh too much on the first three adult sisters we meet: Jill (Helena Wilson), the dowdy one content to stay behind to help; Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond), who is still in awe at Joan’s talent; and Gloria (Leanne Best), the eldest whose resentment tracks clearly on her face and is the most upset at Joan’s impending, late-as-usual arrival.

But, as we see each time the turntable (by Rob Howell, who lavishly designed the production) takes us back to the old days, Veronica (Laura Donnelly; a vision of Joan Crawford) was no Momma Rose. A WWII widow enamored with Americana’s allure, she named each room in the hotel after a U.S. state and would make the girls recite obstacles faced by the Andrews as if to chart out their maps for them. But Veronica’s relationship with her children is loving, and they seem to enjoy performing cutesy numbers by Doris Day or Johnny Mercer, one of whose songs (arranged here by Nick Powell and Candida Caldicot) provide the play its title.

As each of its three acts toggle between past and present, a climactic kink in that dynamic emerges after an encounter with an American talent scout (David Wilson Barnes) in a scene which requires a psychic sleight of hand which Mendes, somewhat surprisingly, does not pull off. It’s a rare faux pas, which undermines the play’s most important development, in an otherwise splendid staging, which features moody lighting by Natasha Chivers, a towering hotel set by Howell, and great performances from the younger sisters (Lara McDonell as Joan; Nancy Allsop as Gloria; Sophia Ally as Ruby; Nicola Turner as Jill).

The hotel’s stairwells, straight out of M.C. Escher, reach towards the flies as Butterworth’s family saga sprawls over to include a host of other characters. It’s an unusually large cast for a play, with solid performances by Ta’Rea Campbell, Bryan Dick, Richard Lumsden, Richard Short, Liam Bixby, Ellyn Heald, Max Roll, and Cameron Scoggins. 

It’s in that long, almost serialized air that Hills best breathes: when, as in a soap, your attention is enthralled by the bigger picture.

The Hills of California is in performance through December 22, 2024 at the Broadhurst Theatre on West 44th St in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.