The Hills of California On Broadway
“The hills of California will give ya a start. I guess I better warn ya cuz you’ll lose your heart,” says the Johnny Mercer song from 1948. The Hills of California, the new play from Jez Butterworth now at Broadway’s Broadhurst Theatre, may not make you lose your heart, but the production and above all the performances from a large and stellar cast under the superb direction of Sam Mendes may very well take your breath away.
The Hills of California, set in a shabby resort hotel in Blackpool in 1955 and 1976, is part memory play, part cabaret performance, part shaggy dog show biz story, and part cautionary tale – Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage would be a good alternate title, drawn from another old standard.
In 1955, Veronica Webb (Laura Donnelly), a widow with a heart of ice, runs the Seaview Guesthouse and Spa, but her true avocation is to whip her four daughters into a first-rate vaudeville act, shamelessly based on the Andrews Sisters (“with one spare”).
But The Hills of California opens in 1976 with Veronica on her deathbed, unseen in an upstairs room, as three of her daughters gather for a death watch of sorts. Jill (Helena Wilson), now a drab spinster, has never left the Seaview. Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) and Gloria (Leanne Best) have married and returned for the vigil. Joan (Laura Donnelly again), the eldest, now lives in California and whether she will return to see her mum before she passes provides a modest amount of suspense as the play progresses.
The play moves back and forth in time, a seamless illusion that is aided immensely by Rob Howell’s vertiginous revolving set and Natasha Chiver’s evocative lighting.
In 1955, we meet the young Webb girls, portrayed by younger actresses, all excellent. Joan (Lara McDonnell) is clearly the “hippest” and the most mature (she smokes!). She also seems to have the clearest sense of where their Andrews Sisters tribute act might take her.
One of the several joys of The Hills of California is watching the girls go through their paces. All of the Webb sisters in both of their incarnations are terrific singers and the close harmonies are a delight.
All this is done under the watchful – and merciless – eye of Veronica, who is Blackpool’s own Mama Rose. The comparison is apt and unavoidable. Ironically enough, Mendes directed a well-received revival of Gypsy in 2003!
Veronica’s dream seems to be on the cusp of fulfillment when the opportunity arises to audition the girls for Luther St. John (David Wilson Barnes), an American impresario putting together a charity show at London’s Palladium.
St. John, brutally but truthfully, lets Veronica know that the act is derivative and passé (“Have you heard of Elvis Presley?”), but he sees something in Joan and asks to audition her alone, in private.
Is there a casting couch in that upstairs room? The inference is inescapable but as written and played St. John seems the soul of professionalism. Of course, Veronica’s acquiescence to the private audition makes her far more monstrous than Mama Rose ever was.
If there was any doubt of that, her melt down after the destruction of everything she has worked so hard to achieve leaves no doubt and Donnelly makes the moment a tour de force.
So what became of the Webb sisters? Most of them live lives of quiet desperation it seems, racked with regret and bitterness. And what of Joan, living in the far off hills of California? Thereby hangs the ending of Butterworth’s shaggy dog story.
As he demonstrated in Jerusalem and The Ferryman, Butterworth is a master wordsmith who marshals large casts of vivid and distinct characters deployed in intricate plots. The Hills of California has similar virtues even if it doesn’t rise to the stature of those earlier works.
What is indisputable is the quality of the performances, which are uniformly excellent. Donnelly, who is Butterworth’s partner offstage, is absolutely smashing as both Veronica and the grown up Joan (yes, she makes it back). She is the odds on favorite to win the Tony for Best Actress.
Donnelly’s performance alone would make it worth seeing The Hills of California, but what makes the play an especially joyous occasion is that Donnelly is first among equals. All of the Webb girls, as giddy teens and disillusioned adults, all imported from the original London cast, are wonderful to watch.
Mendes has directed with a master’s touch. The rhythms of the play, now frantic now dead quiet, are almost symphonic. At almost three hours, The Hills of California is long by current standards but the time flies.
The Hills of California is enjoying an open ended run at the Broadhurst Theatre at 235 West 44th Street in New York City. For more information and to purchase tickets visit the official website.
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