Puppet Fiction seems like the perfect cult homage to a film director who has throughout his career so often paid tribute to the various genres that have influenced him.

One wonders what night of drunken derangement led Jon Coddington, James Nokise and Anya Tate-Manning to decide to stage a puppet show of Pulp Fiction?  But whatever the circumstance, very few of the audience that attended tonight’s performance would argue that it wasn’t a worthy moment of imbibing-based inspiration.*

The puppets are extraordinary. Coddington has done an exceptional job of realising the iconic actors / roles as marionettes. Great opportunities for riffing arise (and are fully realised by the talented cast) when guns are blue-tacked into marionette hands, when puppets try to kiss, and when strings become tangled in action sequences. And if you’ve ever wanted to see a puppet perform cunnilingus this is a bucket list moment. 

There is also much delight in the attention (and sometimes intentional lack thereof) to props and set items. My absolute favourite moment of the night is the ‘motorbike’ that Butch and Fabienne ride off on. There is also something charming and delightfully low fi about the use of slides of Christchurch streets and buildings for the backdrops, never more so that when a Virus Update Notification pops up on the screen.

Coddington, Nokise and Tate-Manning manage the technical, theatrical and comedic elements of the performance without seeming to even break a sweat in the stifling tent, and Coddington’s Captain Koons (Christopher Walken) is a particular highlight.

Given that the season is played in episodes (we see Episode 3; there is a marathon of all three tonight – Saturday) we don’t get to see all of the characters or iconic moments of the film. But we were invited to ‘recite along’ with the infamous Ezekiel speech delivered by Jules who tells us, “This was a very popular passage from the mid to late 90s, an Oscar nomination passage, from when they used to nominate black people.” As Jules (pitched perfectly by Nokise) delivers the speech, many mouths of die-hard Pulp Fiction fans move along in unison. 

The real delight in Puppet Fiction is when things go off book. The three players have an excellent rhythm with each other, and use these moments to provide those types of experience that we know only tonight’s audience get to see. They draw the audience in to their bizarre and quirky world with warmth and generosity. I sincerely hope that Tarantino answers their invitation and attends tonight’s full length performance. What auteur wouldn’t want to see such an inventive, kitsch and heart-felt honouring of their work?

*Assumption only on part of reviewer. This in no way should cast aspersions on the drinking habits or mental state of the cast of Puppet Fiction.

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Glory be, Fringe is yet again filling, with its special magic, the most unexpected Dunedin venues, from the sublime to the ridiculous: the Festival Gala launching impressively with Film Noir trappings in the huge Town Hall, while next night I find myself squeezed into intimate contact with lovely strangers in the unbelievably teeny but twinkly Inch Bar.    

It is the perfect spot for this delicious cult show of a cult show: the tiny but perfectly formed puppets prance on a tiny stage with tiny props, and we are right there to help the brilliant human-sized operators when things fall apart. Sometimes literally. But even losing a foot simply provides James Nokise, as Vincent, with the opportunity for wickedly funny ad-libs, or at the least a “Thank you, Hand of God” as a prop is handed up by a grinning punter crouched beneath him.  

And this is the chief delight of Puppet Fiction.  It is a cute idea to have the violent cult classic enacted by puppets, but it is the verbal dexterity of the puppet masters that keeps us in a ripple of amusement, creating a hilarious party atmosphere. The odd slow patch is forgiven when the character is grumbling, “The trouble with this section is, I have no jokes… told you you should have hired De Niro!… We’ll just stand here in awkward silence…” 

The actor/operators are in impeccable, nonchalant control, and the audience adores them.  Nokise is brilliant, but Anya Tate-Manning and Jon Coddington are also delightfully relaxed yet quick-thinking, and it is their handling of the fluffs that inspires the increasing hilarity of the crowded bar. 

The puppets themselves, created by Coddington, are gorgeous: clever caricatures of faces with the best noses ever, and jointed arms with splayed fingers that are marvellously expressive. The set is a television screen, which means that when we move from the diner to a collapsible cardboard car (“We’re really shit at building cars – this is why they don’t let us do children’s theatre. I’m steering with my dick!”) it is our own Dunedin we recognise rushing past the window. 

The gruesome humour of the movie is recreated with relish, the audience is viciously threatened (“I’ll execute every one of you mother-fuckers – this is not a drill!” snarls sweet Tate-Manning), but the black comedy of Pulp Fiction translates irresistibly to puppets.  Well, they’ve been making us laugh at violence since Punch and Judy, after all. 

On a nearby floor cushion I see a friend, a caring tender-hearted teacher of children with learning disabilities, who surprisingly turns out to be a rabid Pulp Fiction fan. She is loving this so much she is aggressively determined to stay for the following two performances, which complete the story: rapes, heroin overdoses and all. 

I suggest you too menace your way up the queue outside the Inch Bar to see at least one show.  You won’t be disappointed.  If you’re lucky you’ll catch gems like this:  “I’ve screwed up the lines – still getting images of stewardesses from the riff we did earlier…”  A knock-out.

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“Everybody be cool, this is a puppet show.”  Puppet Fiction is one of those ridiculous but brilliant ideas: bringing the cult film to the stage in marionette form. To quote the blurb, the concept is “bat-shit crazy,” but Pulp Fiction is a classic, and anyone who enjoyed it (and seriously, who doesn’t) will find this show rewarding. 

The puppets are incredible – lovingly made, well-observed, and with loads of character, even in repose.  Jon Coddington is a gifted artist and a craftsman – and his John Travolta impersonation is totally credible, too. The action is performed in front of a TV screen; convenient for displaying the credits and showing a few scene changes, and behind which a bit of stage management happens. 

The cast are strong, sweating their way through tricksy bits and taking the inevitable mistakes in their stride. James Nokise particularly shines, especially as he is the quickest with his adlibs and off the cuff witticisms. 

The game of the show lies in watching the puppeteers struggle; eating, kissing, shooting up: these are all tricky things to do with a 30cm tall marionette.  But the limitations and off-the-cuff responses to it are half of the humour.  The rest comes from that excellent script. 

I walked away from this show hungry to watch Pulp Fiction again.  In Auckland they are performing the movie in segments, so you’ll have to keep coming back if you want to see all your favourite parts.

And in terms of seeing everything, the puppets are small so get in quick to get a seat front and centre – otherwise there will be stuff you miss. This show has cult smash written all over it. They are heading off to Adelaide next, where I expect them to be a hit.  Get in now and check it out.

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“Don’t expect to see a remake of Pulp Fiction,” director Hannah K Clarke cautions in her programme note. “It’s not plagurism [sic], it’s homage!”

Wedged into a corner of Bats Theatre’s tiny Pit Bar, bursting-with-punters, she operates the laptop that throws up titles, credits and location backdrops on the large flat screen that separates the puppeteers from the table top on which their string puppets perform.

Lovingly crafted by Jon Coddington, who is joined by James Nokise and Anya Tate-Manning, the superb puppets are instantly recognisable as Travolta, Jackson, et al. The tiny props are brilliant too.

When Tate-Manning’s Honey Bunny delivers a prologue debating whether it’s worth holding up (as in ribbing) this theatre bar with gags about Marty (Bats’ programme manager) and Chris (Bats’ business manager), I think for a moment we’re in for a full-on Kiwi parody. But no, it quickly reverts to the stock schlock – and hey, it wouldn’t be ‘pulp’ otherwise, would it?

At 6.45 on Thursday we get the first of ‘The Bonnie Situation’s 3 parts. [This week and next week, 3 stories play out in 3 parts on Wed (‘The Gold Watch’), Thurs (‘The Bonnie Situation’), Fri (Marcellus Wallis’ Wife) and Sat is a mash up of highlights and requests.]

Coddington plays it relatively straight as Vincent while Nokise ad-libs so well as Jules (e.g. when a leg won’t move, “I think I got a dead leg from the car ride”), that you want more things to go ‘wrong’. Tate-Manning fills in all the other roles with alacrity.

Plush pink bench-seats set the diner, then, encased in a box, create the car, then furnish the apartment where Vincent and Jules may or may not be saved by a miracle.

Aficionados await the accidental shooting of Marvin in the car with high anticipation and are not disappointed. Somehow the awkwardness of some of the ‘effects’ just adds to the fun.

The tight team works hard beneath their relaxed exteriors.  It’s a big and arguably insane task they have taken on.  But this is a homage to a cult classic that made a big impression in their teens, while creating a seismic shift in Hollywood values, and judging by the packed Pit Bar (with many turned away), there are plenty of punters of their generation and others who share their nostalgic passion. 

Get there early (it’s a koha/donation show, so no bookings.)

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