Maybe it’s a tad unfair to begin a review of Dan Hoyle’s Tings Dey Happen by referencing his father, the superlative actor-clown Geoff Hoyle. Even if you’re only slightly familiar with the elder Hoyle’s loony comic spirit, though, his son’s 85-minute, deeply provocative solo play occasionally still feels like the best déjà vu. Sinewy, rubber-faced, enviably animated, the younger Hoyle’s piece offers a revolving door of acutely drawn characters who amuse even when they’re delving into the disturbingly, bitingly political.
Tings Dey Happen dramatizes Hoyle’s adventures as a Fulbright scholar in Nigeria, the West African nation that supplies the U.S. with about 10 percent of its oil—a statistic that could easily head north if the geopolitical winds were to shift. Hoyle frequently alludes to the term “oil politics” to describe his studies, but in reality it’s the politics of American oil that he means. His rambunctious and fractured narrative is not only an indictment of our too-slick American lifestyle, but a wail of lamentation for its unsavory byproduct: the warlords who ruthlessly blow up pipelines or kidnap day workers whose jobs utterly rely on Americans keeping things exactly as they are. Adopting a pitch-perfect accent and a distinct physicality for every character—none of whom is himself—Hoyle also presents cunning and cynical American oilmen; the bland and endearingly vanilla U.S. ambassador to Nigeria; even an errant, sassy prostitute. Only the most blind, unrepentant and disconnected free-trader could dismiss the education Hoyle received. Liberals and greens will rejoice; conservatives will undoubtedly sulk.
When you include the expected verbal artillery launched at the multinational oil companies that profit from our perpetual petro-business (easy target, that), the things that happen in the play can make for a lot of doom and gloom. But Hoyle, who with director Charlie Varon developed the piece at the San Francisco performance space The Marsh (where it ran for six months), cleverly inserts an imaginary stage manager—soft of voice, fleet of foot, pun-happy, self-effacing—to lighten the mood when Tings gets heavy. A little humor goes a long way, and it prevents Hoyle from skidding on an oil slick of drama.
Whether the stage manager character is Varon’s idea or Hoyle’s I cannot say, but it’s one of several touches that help you chuckle, worry and become infuriated at the same time. Varon’s staging thrives on economy: the stage is bare but for a single chair; and Hoyle’s loose, all-black clothing is the blank canvas on which his memorable galaxy of African and American men and women are deftly painted (with cameos by other races, less memorable). Tight blackouts and slow fadeouts salt and pepper the story, and there’s nothing like seeing an actor in the kind of physical shape Hoyle’s in use his body as a narrative tool—it’s like watching Lily Tomlin, or Hoyle’s father, in his prime. Social conscientiousness without preachiness is also a welcome commodity on our stages, especially at a time when so much political theater feels like a lecture hall. Fill your tank while you can.
Through Sept. 23. Culture Project, 55 Mercer St. (at Broome St.), 212-352-3101; $35-$50.
Tings Dey Happen dramatizes Hoyle’s adventures as a Fulbright scholar in Nigeria, the West African nation that supplies the U.S. with about 10 percent of its oil—a statistic that could easily head north if the geopolitical winds were to shift. Hoyle frequently alludes to the term “oil politics” to describe his studies, but in reality it’s the politics of American oil that he means. His rambunctious and fractured narrative is not only an indictment of our too-slick American lifestyle, but a wail of lamentation for its unsavory byproduct: the warlords who ruthlessly blow up pipelines or kidnap day workers whose jobs utterly rely on Americans keeping things exactly as they are. Adopting a pitch-perfect accent and a distinct physicality for every character—none of whom is himself—Hoyle also presents cunning and cynical American oilmen; the bland and endearingly vanilla U.S. ambassador to Nigeria; even an errant, sassy prostitute. Only the most blind, unrepentant and disconnected free-trader could dismiss the education Hoyle received. Liberals and greens will rejoice; conservatives will undoubtedly sulk.
When you include the expected verbal artillery launched at the multinational oil companies that profit from our perpetual petro-business (easy target, that), the things that happen in the play can make for a lot of doom and gloom. But Hoyle, who with director Charlie Varon developed the piece at the San Francisco performance space The Marsh (where it ran for six months), cleverly inserts an imaginary stage manager—soft of voice, fleet of foot, pun-happy, self-effacing—to lighten the mood when Tings gets heavy. A little humor goes a long way, and it prevents Hoyle from skidding on an oil slick of drama.
Whether the stage manager character is Varon’s idea or Hoyle’s I cannot say, but it’s one of several touches that help you chuckle, worry and become infuriated at the same time. Varon’s staging thrives on economy: the stage is bare but for a single chair; and Hoyle’s loose, all-black clothing is the blank canvas on which his memorable galaxy of African and American men and women are deftly painted (with cameos by other races, less memorable). Tight blackouts and slow fadeouts salt and pepper the story, and there’s nothing like seeing an actor in the kind of physical shape Hoyle’s in use his body as a narrative tool—it’s like watching Lily Tomlin, or Hoyle’s father, in his prime. Social conscientiousness without preachiness is also a welcome commodity on our stages, especially at a time when so much political theater feels like a lecture hall. Fill your tank while you can.
Through Sept. 23. Culture Project, 55 Mercer St. (at Broome St.), 212-352-3101; $35-$50.
