Cult of Love review: Laugh, cry, and ponder harsh truths about family dysfunction, just in time for the holidays

It wouldn't be a proper family holiday if there wasn't crying involved. But whether you shed tears of mirth or despair changes minute to minute in the Dahl household.

That's the horrible, magical truth about family, as presented by Cult of Love: They cause joy as easily as agony. This family endures both in spades as four adult children return home, their unlucky partners in tow, to remind themselves what they loved about being together — and what it was that drove them so far away.

Where to start? Never mind the recovering alcoholics present, mom has filled a punchbowl with Manhattans! Dad's memory loss has concerning medical implications that no one will acknowledge; at least one marriage is crumbling in real time; waves of homophobic energy are rolling off one sister in the direction of another; and, absurdly, the Dahls can't stop breaking into song despite the sleeping baby upstairs. 

It sounds like a nonstop crisis, but in a way, it breezes by. Cult of Love would be a laugh-a-minute romp if it wasn't for the long-simmering tension and sharp gut-punches. And that's by the design; after all, the laughter and smiles aren't shallow, but very real. There is plenty of  love and good humor in the tenderly lit Connecticut living room, decked out in tinsel and joyous Christmas cheer. It just so happens to be accompanied by long held frustrations and harsh truths, slowly clawing their way up everyone's throats.

If matriarch Ginny Dahl (Mare Winningham) only had it her way, the occasion would reunite her devout Christian children to be a picture-perfect family who sip Manhattans and reminisce about their happy childhood. Instead, favorite son and recovering addict Johnny (Christopher Sears) is late to arrive, delaying dinner and leaving his siblings —  despairing priest turned lawyer Mark (Zachary Quinto), argumentative chef Evie (The Acolyte's Rebecca Henderson), and devout as ever Diana (an almost childlike Shailene Woodley) — to wade their way through a rare reunion.

Within minutes of being in the Dahl family living room, the wounds begin to emerge. Their singalongs waver between airy fun and eerie discomfort: There's no issue they can't harmonize through, squash down, deny deny deny until someone picks up a banjo, drops a cherished memory, or simply storms out of the room. At the same time, there's something undeniably intoxicating about the pull of them being together, singing a song, snickering at inside jokes, making the kind of observations that only someone who has known you your whole life can.

Through it all, the cast is uniformly excellent. Molly Bernard (Younger) bitterly embodies Mark's long-suffering wife Rachel, while Roberta Colindrez brings new energy to the occasion as Pippa, Evie's wife still learning the ropes of their dysfunction, and less willing to smooth her edges for the sake of fitting in. Christopher Lowell (GLOW) is perfectly detestable as Diana's enabling holier-than-thou husband, while Johnny's unexpected guest, Loren (Euphoria's Barbie Ferreira), is a welcome disruption — an outsider whose amusement morphs into discomfort at the sight of all that they are. 

The siblings each expertly balance their specific blend of bitterness and longing, especially Henderson, whose acidity frequently cuts through the action. Meanwhile, as fading patriarch Bill, Succession's David Rasche is a comfort to both his children and the audience, effortlessly dissolving tension with piano patters and good nature. 

It's hard to find a standout when the onstage chemistry is so comfortable, the comedic timing nailed, the emotional breaks so consistently evocative. It all moves with ease, so synched that it becomes apparent whose star is truly shining: that of writer Leslye Headland (The Acolyte) and director Trip Cullman (Lobby Hero, Choir Boy). Headland's script brings more than just wit to the table; there's a raw, honest emotionality here, fleshed out characters, and thoughtful dynamics. It's no surprise given her prior works: Cult of Love is as sharp as Russian Doll, as funny as Sleeping With Other People and, like The Acolyte, gives its characters a distinct sense of humanity. Meanwhile, Cullman has orchestrated a 10-character play that glides forward, never stumbling.

Cult of Love isn't treading new ground, as a family dramedy thriving in its dysfunction, but it certainly knows its way around the genre.

The hymnals do begin to feel overlong, not helped by their repetitive nature. But then, isn't that the point? It's all too easy to roll your eyes or want to vaguely tune them out,  but here especially, the performances don't falter. It's yet another opportunity to watch the pull of being in the Dahl clan work its magic, as each character reacts in real time to being tugged back in to the fray. When the family closes in with their banjo and kazoo, it's hard to turn away, an effect best embodied when Johnny makes his entrance with a call and response song.

Ironically, the play does come with a preachy streak, playing to its crowd with pat-yourself-on-the-back monologues, moralizing with a pause for applause. But humanity wins out. An on-the-nose observation here, or self-righteous speech there, yes, but it works because of all the effort put into convincing us that, despite it all, each of the Dahls so desperately believes that there's still something left for them in the festive farmhouse. Even Evie, to the agony of Pippa, is searching out something that not every family member is willing to provide. 

"Stop talking to me like that," she at one point begs Diana. "Talk to me like my sister."

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Do they walk away or agree to come back next year? Do they still owe each other something, or owe themselves the chance to build something new? The questions are unspoken, but loudly asked, as the play earns its title. For each of the Dahls, it's hard to stay away, no matter what logic or their gut or their loved ones have to say about it. There is still — perhaps quite distantly — the glow of the past, calling them back like a beacon. In their most despairing moments, it's still there on the Dahl children's faces, and hiding behind their words: "That was us, once. We were happy and together. Why can't that be us again?"

If there's an answer, I'm convinced it's here somewhere, buried in this delightfully messy family holiday, waiting to be accessed by the Dahls and all the rest of us held hostage by the promise of our family's enduring love. Grade: B+