{shortcode-dbce3cc1e3a5cd991685d25bc6f3cf56b57f41d7}

“The Hills of California” doesn’t want to give too much away. The parlor that serves as the backdrop for the opening scenes is unassuming and timeworn, giving just the first taste of the history about to be tracked. Not long after the play begins, that parlor suddenly rotates to reveal a whole new set. These secrets are just the tip of the iceberg in director Loretta Greco’s new production of Jez Butterworth’s play, now playing at The Huntington, which includes but is certainly not limited to familial betrayal, lost childhood, and a jump-started jukebox. However, as rich in content and concept as “The Hills of California” may be, the acting occasionally falls flat, missing some of the complexity and humanity that is so central to the play.

The text centers on a family of four daughters and their single mother, Veronica, living in the guest house of their childhood home in Blackpool, England. As Veronica’s health deteriorates, the girls return to say goodbye. Notably missing, however, is Joan — the eldest of the four — who moved to America and hasn’t been heard from in over a decade.

Jumping between the spring of 1955 and the summer of 1976, Butterworth’s play follows Veronica’s often heavy-handed attempts to sculpt her girls into the hottest new singing act a là the Andrews Sisters, paralleled by her later physical decline surrounded by three of her four daughters. The text is full of life; each daughter, young and present-day, has her own mannerisms, hopes, and, of course, gripes. Meanwhile, Veronica’s neurotic desperation to cultivate stars combined with her daughters’ desire to please creates a sense of foreboding that permeates past and present. Greco maintains the pace given by Butterworth’s text throughout, with barely-there tensions simmering in the undertone of almost every scene, leading up to the dramatic, but in some ways, inevitable, conclusion.

Conceptually, this show, from the set design to the lights and costumes, is remarkably well-done. Designed by Andrew Boyce and Se Hyun Oh, the set, which rotates back and forth on a turntable between the public and private parlor of the inn, signals time jumps between past and present. The majority of the present-day timeline happens in the public parlor while the girls’ younger counterparts occupy the private parlor. This divide has the most impact when bridged. The moments in which actors cross the boundary between private and public, past and present, artfully weave together the two storylines.

Though set up for success, the actors playing the present day sisters mostly miss the mark when it comes to portraying the emotional complexity that naturally permeates family drama. The actors mostly rely on volume over intention. As a result, for example, the shock of watching Gloria, one of the more outspoken characters played by Amanda Kristin Nichols, raise her voice to near hysteria wears off after the second or third time it happens in the first act. In a similar vein, Jillian (Karen Killeen), the “quiet” character, loses some of her pull after too many lines delivered in a much too similar way.

This isn’t to say that the show completely flounders when it comes to the people on stage. Notably, the younger actors, Kate Fitzgerald, Meghan Carey, Chloé Kolbenheyer, and Nicole Mulready, do a phenomenal job of bringing their characters’ personalities and relationships with each other and their mother to the stage. They both poke fun at their mother when she finally leaves them alone and sit around her adoringly as she meditates aloud about the virtue of music and performance. Their performances bring a lovely charm to an otherwise emotionally heavy show. Despite everything that one knows is to come, watching the four young teenagers dance in sparkly leotards still brings out a smile. Both in the musical performance scenes, in which they consistently shine, and the smaller moments between sisters in the parlor, the young sisters have all the nervous flutter and wild hope of adolescence that lets the audience believe, even having just seen otherwise, that there’s a happy ending for them.

The design elements help add layers to the story where the acting occasionally misses. Designed by Russell H. Champa, the lighting is grounded in reality. The sun shining through a window or light emanating from candles complements the more interpretive elements of the design. In contrast to the moving house, the literal design of the lighting allows the audience to engage with the abstract and artful use of the set while reminding them that, rotating house aside, the play is ultimately an unflinching portrayal of rifts and heartache. The costumes, designed by Jennifer von Mayrhauser, also reinforce the emotional distance between the sisters: as children, they dressed similarly in schoolgirl skirts and sweaters, while as adults, their styles, much like their temperaments and paths of life, could not be more different.

Overall, between the performance of the younger actors and the beautifully executed design, the moments when “The Hills of California” shines almost make up for the times it flounders. Family drama is complicated, so when the emotional nuance that makes the story so compelling is lost to repetitive acting choices, the journey and characters can feel one dimensional. Luckily, having two cast members per character gives someone else a chance to get it right — and that chance is not wasted.