“Do you remember what it felt like when we sang together?”
On a drizzly October evening, I found myself among a throng of theatergoers outside a dimly lit venue, drawn by the magnetic allure of Sam Mendes’ direction of The Hills of California. The setting—an ambient fall hum-drum—gave way to something deeply stirring as we nestled into our seats, facing a seemingly incongruous stage: a lively tiki shack placed in the center of a dreary staircase that climbed into an unseen darkness. As the piano overture began—a haunting melody drifting through the theater—it foreshadowed the emotional labyrinth we were about to traverse.
At its core, The Hills of California is a tightly wound family drama, with an undercurrent of psychological intensity. Jez Butterworth’s script masterfully exposes the impossible expectations of a domineering mother and the fragmented lives of her four daughters, each attempting to navigate the crushing weight of family trauma. This play doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of generational scars: the overbearing mother’s relentless ambition to lift at least one daughter out of perceived mediocrity, contrasted with the sisters’ individual and collective sense of entrapment.
The performances were nothing short of extraordinary. Laura Donnelly delivered a gut-wrenching dual performance as both the mother Veronica and the most damaged daughter Joan, seamlessly switching between the hardened matriarch and the broken daughter. Leanne Best, as Gloria, brought a ferocity to the stage that was both unsettling and deeply human, capturing the bottled-up rage of a daughter left behind.
Where The Hills of California excels is in its intricate character dynamics. Each sister—whether through bitter resentment, Stockholm syndrome-like attachment, or deluded escapism—faces the painful inheritance of their mother’s ambitions. The sisters’ shared homecoming on the cusp of their mother’s death becomes the setting for catharsis, yet Butterworth denies the audience easy resolutions, which only heightens the tension.
Visually, the production juxtaposes warmth and nostalgia with a stark, cold present. The tiki shack, brimming with past promise, is set against the backdrop of a looming, oppressive staircase, capturing the duality of past hope and present despair. The only shortfall in this production is the pacing of the first act, which drags through heavy exposition. However, the second act more than compensates, delivering a swift and powerful unraveling of each character’s carefully constructed façade.
The evening ended as it began—with a resonant and eerie piano melody, echoing the play’s unresolved tensions. Mendes’ direction, combined with Butterworth’s sharp, character-driven writing, ensures The Hills of California lingers in the mind long after the lights have dimmed. It’s an unsettling yet beautiful exploration of family, loss, and the relentless drive for something better—whatever the cost.
The Hills of California runs through December 22 at the Broadhurst Theatre in Manhattan. Information can be found at thehillsofcalifornia.com.