The Hills of California review | A journey through time and family bonds

The Hills of California, unfolds like a tapestry of memories, spanning two distinct time frames. Set against the backdrop of a once-grand family home in Blackpool, this three-act drama explores the complexities of sisterhood, secrets, and the passage of time. Rob Howell’s set design immediately captures our attention. The looming house, once the Seaview Luxury Guest House and Spa, stands weathered and worn. Staircases stretch into the eaves, leading to hidden rooms named after distant American states—Alabama, Mississippi, Minnesota, and Tennessee. These rooms hold dreams of escape, promises of a better life. But within these walls lie deeper secrets, waiting to be unearthed.

Veronica, the matriarch, rules this house with a mix of determination and longing. Laura Donnelly’s charismatic performance reveals Veronica’s disappointments—the absent husband, the murky past. She dreams beyond Blackpool’s confines, pushing her daughters to become their own version of the Andrews Sisters. Veronica’s belief that “a song is a dream, a place to be, somewhere to live” echoes throughout the play. As the four sisters reunite, tensions simmer beneath the surface. Gloria’s (Leanne Best) complaints about her crimplene slacks and Ruby’s (Ophelia Lovibond) air-conditioned Datsun from Rochdale add a touch of humor. Meanwhile, Dennis, Ruby’s bewildered husband, grapples with the unfamiliar heat. Butterworth’s writing captures these everyday moments, revealing ripples of anger lurking beneath the surface.

In 1955, we witness the same house as Veronica trains the young Webb sisters to sing in close harmony—a dream that binds them together. But even then, secrets fester. Butterworth masterfully explores memory’s impact, revealing how it colors lives across generations. Sam Mendes’s direction creates a statuesque tension. The sisters often stand on opposite sides of the stage, emphasizing their emotional distance. Leanne Best infuses Gloria with frustrated energy and profound loss, while Ophelia Lovibond’s Ruby carries the weight of unspoken fears. Helena Wilson’s Jill embodies restraint, and Richard Lumsden’s drunken piano player draws genuine pathos. Joan’s absence hangs over the narrative like a ghostly veil. We know little about her—only that she left for America and never returned. Her mysterious disappearance fuels the play’s central mystery. Why did she leave? What secrets lie buried within her silence?

The Hills of California may not reach the explosive heights of Butterworth’s previous works, but it remains an interesting evening—a slow smolder that ignites sparks of revelation. As the final act unfolds, we confront guilt, loss, and the enduring power of family bonds. This faded house, with its hidden rooms and haunting memories, becomes a microcosm of life itself—a place where dreams and regrets collide.