Perhaps the city should rename West 44th Street Stage Mother Way.
At the Majestic Theater between 7th and 8th Avenue, Audra McDonald will soon begin playing the role of Mama Rose, the cruelest of cast parents, in the revival of the musical “Gypsy.”
And next door to Broadhurst, where Jez Butterworth’s new play “The Hills of California” opens Sunday night, lives her tough British counterpart, Veronica Webb.
As Rose, single mom Veronica forces her four daughters to learn about show business in Blackpool, England, in order to escape their shabby lives spent running a seedy hotel.
Both women are morally unbalanced, and decide that sacrificing the innocence of their children for fame is worth the risk.
But there is one important difference. While deep down Mama Rose is all about Number 1 – “For me… and for you!” – Naive Veronica firmly believes that a music career will save her girls from sinking into the same unsatisfactory life she did.
Sorry, not going to happen. We know because Butterworth’s play, directed by Sam Mendes, begins in 1976, when the Webb sisters are troubled adults and mothers themselves — angry, stuck, and gathered together on the night the elder Veronica will die of cancer.
Suffice it to say, Butterworth’s compelling drama starts out sad and only gets sadder.
It’s not the playwright’s best (that’s “Jerusalem,” which Mark Rylance explosively starred in on Broadway) or his grandest (that’d be “The Ferryman”). But “The Hills” has a charmingly haunted atmosphere, even if the ghosts are not ghosts, but traumas. And in its dreamy third act, the play sets itself apart from many plays about children trapped in their parents’ pipe dreams.
The hapless flies are Gloria (Leanne Best), Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) and Jill (Helena Wilson), who land on the Sea View Hotel, a charming establishment punctuated by a tiki bar and Christmas lights (the “Tragedy of Fawlty Towers”). Rob Howell), up to say goodbye to his unseen mother.
Cheerful spinster Jill – selfless, dwarf or both – has never left home and has become Veronica’s caregiver. Ruby has a daughter of her own. And Gloria, with her husband and son, is the brand of barking, poisonous matriarch you find in American dramas like “August: Osage Country.”
Ready to take charge, Gloria introduces herself to the nurse as “the eldest”, but she is not. That would be Joan, his estranged sister who moved to California in her youth and never returned. He is believed to be on his way to Blackpool.
“The Hills” takes us back to the 1950s, when nanny-like Veronica (Laura Donnelly) is trying to get her girls to join the Andrews Sisters copycat group — complete with perfect harmony, synchronized dancing and shimmering costumes — with no luck. In hopes to discover and lead the London Palladium.
The young Webbs are wonderful mini-mes, played by Nancy Allsopp, Sophia Eli, Lara McDonnell and Nicola Turner.
Adding to the gloom of the story, Blackpool is 250 miles from the cultural center of London. Its removal means that Veronica has never heard of rock and roll, the genre that has already made the Webb Sisters’ act obsolete.
Besides women, Sea View is full of unreliable alcoholics and men who, as Sally Bowles would say, are hired by the hour. None of Butterworth’s male characters are as interesting or detailed as Webb’s. They’re really just there to illustrate what Veronica wants to leave behind.
Donnelly’s Veronica is a mesmerizing creation. Like the fanatic and the librarian, sometimes the cunning woman reveals a surprising detail or fob that reveals that her personality is an elaborate act. Initially cold, small cracks appear in his behavior and resolve. The slightest waver in Donnelly’s voice is emotionally huge. As she is an acting achiever, she later becomes successful in drama.
Other adult webs match her intensity even with less meaty roles. They have that timeless one-two-three dynamic that’s present everywhere from “King Lear” to Chekhov and “The Brady Bunch,” and click like a trio of old-time singers — even if the musical notes are brutal. Are changed for comments and curses.
I admit that some of his flying phrases are difficult to understand. The actors commit admirably to the Blackpool accent, which may surprise even those of us accustomed to British brogues. This is a situation in which, I believe, the best option would be to reduce authenticity.
After all, Butterworth has no problem with big changes. His ending is completely different, and even better than when I saw the play in London in June. An unnecessary, overly complicated flick is gone and replaced by a long-awaited, satisfying confrontation, once again evoking thoughts of “Gypsy.”
From thick to thin, all the way out or all the way in.
