This post has been contributed by Catherine Quirk (@quirk_catherine), McGill University. Read her previous posts here, here, and here.

In December 2019, theatre-goers at Montréal’s Centaur Theatre found themselves exposed to a new kind of Dickensian Christmas. From 19 November to 21 December, “Master Marionette Maker” (Centaur Theatre p. 3) Ronnie Burkett brought his adults-only adaptation of A Christmas Carol to entertain and scandalize audiences, and perhaps—à la Dickens, of course—to tug a little bit on their heartstrings. Knowing very little about the piece going in, I came out quite certain that, of all the very many adaptations of A Christmas Carol that have been made available over the years, this one would have been high on The Inimitable’s list of favourites. Yes, even perhaps vying with that timeless classic, The Muppet’s Christmas Carol.

The piece itself is an extraordinary feat of showmanship and endurance, in which one man, Burkett, “do[es] the Police [and any other character you might imagine] in different voices” (Our Mutual Friend Ch. 16). Little Dickens is just the latest in Burkett’s extensive line of marionette pieces. The multi-award-winning puppeteer has created and performed in a wide variety of shows across Canada since the 1980s, and his “marionette vaudeville” The Daisy Theatre continues to tour the country to rave reviews (Centaur Theatre p. 10). We can see already the obvious parallels with Dickens’ own penchant for public performance—particularly his desire to be fully in control of all elements of any performance. Unlike Dickens, who would of course always be front and centre, and who would constantly ensure his readers and audiences were well aware of his controlling presence, Burkett as puppeteer keeps himself much more out of the spotlight. He repeatedly reminds those audience members he handpicks to participate (“…and you were still brave enough to sit at the front, darling?”) to speak to the puppets, not to him, ensuring that our focus remains on his stringed actors, rather than on his own virtuosity. And yet, from arranging sets to hand-picking the handsomest audience member to play the (shirtless) pool boy, Burkett remains constantly—and hilariously—in control.

In Little Dickens, The Daisy Theatre’s faded diva Esmé Massengill takes the part of Scrooge: the show opens with one of her usual (though Christmas themed for the occasion) burlesque numbers, before her hard-done-by assistant Bob enters to remind her that it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s no show and no audience. Other cast members are similarly borrowed from The Daisy Theatre troupe of marionettes, and evoke—in a manner reminiscent of the stock characters of Punch and Judy, which would undoubtedly raise a Dickensian smile of recognition—an element of familiarity amongst seasoned audience members.

The setting of the adaptation in the theatre, with the diva as the repentant protagonist on her spirit-led journeys through the ill-usage of child actors and the ubiquity of casting-couch culture, allows for a glimpse into the constructed nature of identity that underscores many of Dickens’ works. Here, we begin on stage, with an invisible audience being invoked by Esmé and Bob’s conversation. This invisible audience (which is, of course, the actual audience) becomes part of the imagined journey of the performance throughout: certain audience members are called to the stage to take part, there are multiple sing-along moments (it is Christmas, after all), and characters often repeat entrances, calling for more applause. Esmé draws attention to the staginess of the piece (and, by association, of Dickens’ story) at the emotional climax, when she discovers herself still in her boudoir, on the morning of Christmas Day. She shoos off the stage the audience member who’d been drafted in to play the Ghost of Christmas Future (“or of Christmas yet to come, or of Christmas that will be, depending on which edition you’re reading”), and states explicitly that we’ve come to her “big scene”. After sending Murray, the accountant, off to buy the giant bottle of vodka in the corner shop window to send to Fred, however, Esmé stops suddenly and notes the unreality of the moment. Nobody, she says, would believe this. And for a moment it seems as if the redemption narrative, which has often been read as far-fetched, even naïve, will be revealed for the work of fiction it is. But then she continues: no one would believe an actress has had a change of heart if she hasn’t also had a change of costume. The great Dickensian theatre of the world, Burkett’s adaptation ends by suggesting, is one in which any change of heart is believable, as long as you’re properly dressed for the part.

But where the adaptation truly speaks to the Dickensian spirit is in its seamless combination of modern social and political commentary and popular culture. For Dickens, this combination appears in the book itself: a seasonal ghost story, short enough to be rapidly consumed, but with a poignant and overt message about the treatment of one’s “fellow-passengers to the grave” (A Christmas Carol St. 1). Burkett’s adaptation, as the press and promotional materials highlight, is certainly not a holiday entertainment for the whole family. There are countless euphemisms, jokes, and indeed whole running gags which aren’t fit for reprinting. Throughout this string of innuendo, though, Burkett highlights modern political questions. A character from Alberta, for instance, comments on the most recent federal election, and suggests that she’s come to Quebec to “build bridges,” because—evoking recent Albertan separatist claims—the two provinces are now very much alike. In the same segment, multiple references, ranging from the comedic to the apocalyptic, are made to the TransMountain Pipeline. The piece ends with one of the most recognizable marionettes, Little Schnitzel—who plays Tiny Tim—returning for a closing monologue: he’s dressed in pyjamas and carries his bear, Donald, who is “stuffed and orange” and who doesn’t growl, but says “Tweet, tweet, tweet!” But in the midst of all the adult humour and political commentary, Tiny Tim’s closing lines form a reminder of the true spirit of the holiday season: togetherness and community, and the gifts that can come from sharing a moment together, even—as in the theatre—with a room full of perfect strangers.

Works Cited

Burkett, Ronnie. Little Dickens. Centaur Theatre, Montréal. 19 November – 21 December 2019.

Centaur Theatre. Little Dickens Program. 2019.

Dickens, Charles. A Christmas Carol. The Modern Library, 2001.

—. Our Mutual Friend. Penguin, 1998.