The Hills of California, Harold Pinter Theatre review ★★★★★

With the names Jez Butterworth (Jerusalem!, The Ferryman) and Sam Mendes (The Lehman Trilogy, The Motive and the Cue) behind it, The Hills of California was always going to be one of the hottest openings of the year. The first thing to know is that it’s not set in sunny California but in the British seaside town of Blackpool. The second is that you can breathe a sigh of relief, because it’s an imperfect masterpiece. Through it, Butterworth reminds us of his singular ability to take us deep inside a seemingly mundane microcosm, and make shatteringly astute observations about family dynamics, unreliable memories, sexual politics and then some.

It’s 1976, a summer of intense heat and drought, and the Webb sisters have returned to their dying mother’s Blackpool guesthouse. Each arriving sister adds another piece to the puzzle of this all-female family. The sisters are so dissimilar, it’s no surprise they rarely see each other. Withdrawn homebody Jill (Helena Wilson), seemingly easy-breezy family woman Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) and angsty, shouty Gloria (Leanne Best) could be the three corners of a potential personalities triangle. Resentments bristle between the sisters, each of whom harbours her own version of past events.

Then the stage rotates and we’re in the family kitchen in the late 1950s, the girls in their tweens and teens. They’re a tight unit, fused together through a shared love of American music. Mum, Veronica (Laura Donnelly), is the driving force, desperate to make her all-singing, all-dancing daughters a famous quartet, like the British equivalent of the Andrews Sisters. It’s here the play’s title comes in: Johnny Mercer’s 'The Hills of California' is a favourite among their repertoire – and its tantalising vision of a glamorous life lived elsewhere is a dream hard to resist.

There are two casts, essentially, helping the play flit between its ‘76 homecoming and ‘50s throwbacks. Butterworth and Mendes could work with whoever they want, so it’s no surprise all performances in this ensemble piece are terrific. Men appear too, though they're sidelined figures and often sexually predatory.

The story unfolds on another naturalistic triumph of a set by designer Rob Howell. Cross-crossing wooden stairways above the stage hint at vast portions of this house out of eyeshot. The dingy living space below is cleverly constructed: while dark and shuttered, a jukebox and tiki bar nod to Veronica’s former efforts to bring some of Blackpool’s pleasures inside her business. In Mendes’ production, further nods to the long, hot summer outside come in the appearances of ice creams and sunburnt arms.

Slow-paced to begin with, family secrets are eventually unburied and a shocking revelation of sexual assault hangs heavy in the air. But then a plot twist too far takes this compelling family drama into absurdist territory when it could have held fast as a study of the desire for redemption before death.

Still, The Hills of California is undoubtedly one of the most brilliant works you’ll see on stage this year. Darkly funny in places, wholly relatable in its portrayal of sibling rivalry and a fine example that the most fascinating stories unfold in everyday homes.