THE HILLS OF CALIFORNIA at the Harold Pinter Theatre

★★★★★

“It is, overall, a sharp-witted observation of life. And of death. And the precarious hold we have of memories that lie between.”

Jez Butterworth’s highly anticipated new play, “The Hills of California” is a wondrously slow-burning affair that raises the question, among others, of explaining why people are what they are. As the layers are gradually peeled back the prize at the heart condenses, but it is the twists and turns of the lead-up that keep us in thrall. Despite running at just over three hours, Butterworth seems to have chosen every word with a mosaic artist’s care.

It is the sweltering summer of 1976, and we are in the cluttered parlour of a Blackpool guesthouse, where the cracked piano is off-key. “Through neglect and time” according to the piano tuner – the first (one of many) metaphor that applies to each character. Three sisters are reuniting during the dying moments of their mother who is lying in bed, unseen, upstairs. A fourth sister’s presence is uneasily promised, though not expected. Jill (Helena Wilson) is already on the scene. She still lives with her mother, caring for her, nervously spraying air-freshener to stop her cigarette smoke drifting up the stairs towards her. Enter feisty, witty, no-nonsense Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) lugging her panic attacks and slapping them down on the table. Then Gloria (Leanne Best), bitter and blunt, sagging under the weight of chips on her shoulder. The dynamic is quickly established as sibling rivalries and affections simmer away, while unreliable memories stew.

We are transported back to the source of their memories. To the 1950s when the dreams were still flourishing, the guesthouse breathed with life, and their mother, Veronica (Laura Donnelly), ruled the roost with a regimental and fierce ambition for her daughters. Determined to see them become the next ‘Andrews Sisters’ she is remorseless in her control over them. Donnelly gives a star turn performance, mistakenly believing her steely command is maternal care, unaware of the damage she is causing. When a predatory theatrical agent comes dangling a carrot, we witness the harsh, defining moment that severs the family, and the future scenes make sense.

Slipping back and forth between the fifties and the seventies is the plays major strength. Each decade sheds light on the other and we see how events shape our protagonists; and how memories of those events can cloud their perceptions of reality. The performances are superb across the board. And if the characters’ memories are off pitch, their singing voices are gorgeously harmonious, especially the younger cast who play the sisters as teenagers.

“Sam Mendes brings out the best of this company, directing like a conductor responding to the shifts of mood and time.”

As the questions tentatively find their answers, the bleakness is constantly relieved by the humour that runs through the writing. Comedy that is accentuated by the fine ensemble acting. Shaun Dooley and Bryan Dick are an astute double-act as Gloria and Ruby’s husbands respectively. Dick also doubles as the resident end-of-the-pier jokesmith, Jack Larkin, forever behind on the rent but upfront with loyalty and cringe-worthy quips. There is no cameo role, even if one or two characters appear transient. Each has their place.

Sam Mendes brings out the best of this company, directing like a conductor responding to the shifts of mood and time. There may be one or two movements that could be shortened – or even cut. But like taking out a single part within a harmony, it would leave the others out of kilter. There are many undulations in “The Hills of California”. We are aware of them up close. Stand back and we see the panoramic, yet intimate, view of a family picked apart skilfully by Butterworth.

The sense of disorientation is enhanced by Rob Howell’s impressive set. Homely yet disarranged, it sweeps upwards with its imposingly gothic staircases like a giant Escher woodcut. The sinister is never far away from the everyday. And the trivial minutiae are forever rubbing shoulders with universal truths.

It is, overall, a sharp-witted observation of life. And of death. And the precarious hold we have of memories that lie between. Like the piano – that becomes a central role in the piece – those relationships can go discordantly off-key – “through neglect and time” – as the piano tuner says. Before reminding us: “a piano must be played”.