Jez Butterworth ’s ambitious, captivating and richly rewarding domestic drama “The Hills of California” straddles dual worlds of dreams and reality as it shuttles between two pivotal time periods in the lives of the Webb women.

Although this densely-packed, 17-actor play is more family-focused in its themes than Butterworth's previous, stunning epics “ Jerusalem ” and “ The Ferryman ,” “The Hills of California” — also directed by Sam Mendes , who helmed the Tony-winning “Ferryman” — also touches on societal issues as it portrays women with limited choices and numerous obstacles in an ever-changing world.

In the mid-1950s, Veronica Webb ( Laura Donnelly ), a disciplined but caring mother, drills her young teen and tween daughters to become a song-and-dance quartet, evoking the style and songlist of the ‘40s girl group The Andrew Sisters. But 20 years later, the four-part harmonies have long turned flat as the emotionally damaged sisters gather at their childhood home to stand vigil for their dying mother.

Shifting between the two time periods, the play commences in the late 1970s during a stifling heat wave, with unmarried Jill (Helena Wilson) — who has stayed in the home with their declining mother — awaiting the arrival of two of her siblings, Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) and Gloria (Leanne Best). A fourth sister, Joan (also portrayed by Donnelly, in a transformative role), left home for a recording career in the United States and has been estranged from the family for the past two decades. The cause of the family rift, and the question of Joan's uncertain return, linger over the proceedings as the disheartened daughters share memories, resentments, and grief.

Designer Rob Howell has crafted a revolving stage depicting, on one side, the guest house's public parlor — showcasing Veronica's desperate attempts to attract guests (a broken jukebox, a faded Tiki bar) — and on the other, the family's private kitchen. But looming large (and hauntingly illuminated by Natasha Chivers), Howell has also incorporated a dark, ominous, multi-level structure featuring a series of long staircases leading to guest rooms named after U.S. states, another reminder of American aspirations.

But flashbacks to happier times unveil a family of resilience, humor, and determination as well as a cunning and resourceful mother raising her daughters alone, determined to have them escape the dead-end life in the English seaside town of Blackpool and the fading guest house she runs (and where the family resides), mistakenly named The Seaview.

But times and preferences have changed, and only one daughter has fled their declining hometown for the illusory freedom of the Golden State, as promised in the Johnny Mercer song they sing — and which gives the play its title (“The hills of California are waiting for you”).

Music for the Webbs is more than a potential path to independence; it is a sanctuary, too, as Veronica tells her young daughters: “A song is a place to be… somewhere where you can live… and where you can go anywhere.”

Some may detect echoes of “Gypsy” — a play that, coincidentally, will soon be revived just down 44th Street. After all, both stories feature stage mothers who are powerful forces of nature, although Veronica’s daughters are not reflections of her own unfulfilled aspirations. Nonetheless, in their relentless pursuit to make a star of each of their daughters, both mothers make shocking moral compromises that disrupt relationships.

While the play received positive reviews for its West End premiere earlier this year, Butterworth has since refined the work, particularly its overstuffed ending — a change for the better, making it more streamlined and satisfying.

The focus, however, remains on the women and their narratives, and the show still offers substantial and complex roles for actresses. The men here are more peripheral characters who shed light on or comment on the women’s world: a male lodger to illustrate Veronica’s strength; another with showbiz connections to provide a plot twist; a piano tuner for exposition, and Gloria and Ruby’s accommodating husbands to reflect their marital dynamics. (Two briefly seen children, however, are superfluous characters that only further extend the considerable running time.)

As in “The Ferryman,” Mendes once again guides a finely-tuned ensemble cast. Wilson’s Jill reveals more beneath the surface than her dutiful persona suggests; Lovibond gives a poignant subtext to radiant Ruby, the peacemaking sister who is prone to panic attacks; and in Best’s sharp-tongued Gloria, there’s no hiding that daughter’s long-simmering resentments and deep wounds.

Also coolly nuanced is David Wilson Barnes as the show business agent. The younger versions of the women (Nancy Allsop, Nicola Turner, Sophia Ally) all shimmer with exuberance and talent, while Lara McDonnell, as the younger incarnation of Joan, is especially compelling, deftly signaling this sly, rebellious and self-assured daughter’s exceptionalism, and making it clear she is not only Veronica’s favorite but her mirror.

But it is Donnelly — who received a Tony nomination for “The Ferryman” — and her dual roles here that anchor the play and give it its resonance. Her adult Joan is the perfect embodiment of one of the lost dreamers of Laurel Canyon — one possessing deliciously languid humor. As Veronica, Donnelly is richly layered: loving, chilling, and heartbreaking as she ultimately reveals a mother’s unsettling desperation, leading to a tragic end when dreams and realities collide into a song in which no one wants to live.