Sarah Crompton — Theater Critic

The whole thing has a contemporaneity that makes it feel urgent, a tribute both to Ibsen’s prescience and to Ostermeier’s rigorous analysis of its relevance. If the ending is depressing, that is because it sums up so precisely the state of things.

Line by line, scene by scene, The Hills of California holds the attention. It’s possibly only because of the exalted standards expected of Butterworth that somehow it remains an interesting evening rather than a revelatory one.

Starring the Rolls Royce real-life-husband-and-wife vehicle of Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick, these three snapshots of battles between the sexes are so rooted in historical attitudes and Simon’s dyspeptic view of the state of his own era that it is impossible to enjoy them as anything but period pieces. And slightly difficult to relish them even as that – though Parker’s enthusiasm for the project is infectious enough just about to carry you through.

It’s a bit like seeing a 19th century actor manager taking to the stage. There are some magnetic moments – most notably with Jessica Revell who doubles both as Cordelia and The Fool – but Branagh seems reluctant to drop his guard, to expose himself to frailty or feeling. Even when he is battling the elements, he still seems to be in control. He holds the role but never fully seems to inhabit it.

Scott Thomas is superb, commanding the space with her presence and her widening eyes, at once mischievous and determined. This is a woman who takes on the sea in a daily swim, calming her mind in a battle against the waves; you feel the power of her decisions as well as her sadness. With her battered glamour and slightly crazed ferocity, she conveys both the sense of a woman taking one last chance to break out of a trap that her stalker has made – and the terrible sadness of a life wasted. “What if I am no longer spellbinding?” she asks, fingering her yellowing, old reviews.

Lea Salonga’s pure voice brings resonance to “Loving You” from Passion, and Bonnie Langford wrests every ounce of humour out of Follies’ “I’m Still Here”, that great tribute to theatrical resilience which mirrors her own trooping career. Janie Dee, meanwhile, walks off with several shows in “The Boy From..”, her eyes flashing with understanding as her lips wrangle the unpronounceable words. Jason Pennycooke lends remarkable energy to “Buddy’s Blues”. But the younger singers shine as well, with Christine Allado, Beatrice Penny-Touré and Bradley Jaden all exceptional in a notably strong ensemble.

What’s so magical about it is its delicacy. You imagine in advance that in order to embody so many different characters from the unhappy title figure, to his aged mother, to a crusading doctor, to a glamorous siren, and a plain lovelorn niece, Scott will resort to a lot of busyness, showing his range by leaping around the stage, putting on funny voices.

The frenetic pace that Jones dictates means they become caricatures, with no breathing space to suggest depth or subtlety, relying on physical comedy and broad effects. Because they are such brilliant performers, they produce great moments of humour – but they are given no room to develop anything below the surface.

They are traders, rabbis, lovers, wives, slipping between the characters with the help of an upturned collar or a nod of the head. The original trilogy of actors – Simon Russell Beale, Ben Miles and Adam Godley – created each of those characters for the first production in 2018, suiting their inflections to their own styles. It is extraordinary and rather wonderful to watch Nigel Lindsay, Michael Balogun and Hadley Fraser shape them in different ways.

On Robert Jones' clever set, with objects illuminated in the walls (lighting by Aideen Malone), they spar and dance and declare their love and anger. Annie-Lunnette Deakin-Foster's supple choreography and Rourke's direction move them fluently through the short scenes; one moment they are sitting in a crouch, the next seamlessly sprawled on the floor. They circle each other, weighing their next utterance. By the close, they simply sit, beginning to realise that compression can sometimes mean truth.