Bob Baker Marionette Theater has been around for over 60 years—but it's been more than 40 years since it debuted an entirely new production. The last new show was Hooray LA from 1981.
I've been hearing about it for years now—and when I took a tour of their theatre in LA's Highland Park nearly two years ago, the design and puppet fabrication process was already in full swing.
Now, the long-standing puppet theater company has made major strides to purchase the space they've been leasing for a few years now—and as they prepare to be in LA to stay forever, it's the perfect time for some innovation.
But as much as what's new in Choo Choo Revue, it's still grounded in the principles that has made Bob Baker Marionette Theater such a beloved institution in Los Angeles—nostalgic for grown-ups, and magical for each new generation of kids who come and experience it for the first time.
I squeezed into a nearly sold-out show by nabbing a floor cushion in the center of the front row—and immediately noticed the addition of luggage stacks on either side of the stage.
Soon, those suitcases and steamer trunks would erupt into song, as various rolling stock whizzed across the stage.
A clock-faced conductor sets the tone—and pace—of the show. He's just one of over 100 new puppets created just for this show.
There are plenty of locomotives, of course, and dancing whistles that blow their tops.
But most of the show's musical numbers depict the fantastical sights you'd see while looking out of a train window—or the dreamy destinations that that train might take you to.
Twirling umbrellas welcome a seashore pelican carrying a fish in its mouth—a fish that, funny enough, has got a frog in its mouth. The unlikely trio sing a rendition of Clarence "Frogman" Henry's "I Ain't Got No Home."
It's all Americana, from sea to shining sea—and Bigfoot himself has a bit of a self-confidence problem, singing "Mister Cellophane" from the musical Chicago.
He's evolved over the last couple of years—and I was lucky to catch a glimpse of an earlier iteration of him during a special public preview in 2025 (above).
It wasn't the first time I'd seen the skiing trees, swooshing out of their mountaintop perches to the tune of what I think was "On the Franches Mountains" by the Jura Orchestra.
But I gasped when they swirled around above my head on their ski lift chairs.
Another familiar (to me) character is Helios Enchantos, a sort of daytime cousin to the longstanding shooting star puppet, Demi.
It feels almost a little modern when he dances to "Let the Sunshine In" from Hair—because even though that song came out nearly 60 years ago, in the 1960s, much of the musical catalogue that plays during Bob Baker shows is usually from the 1940s or '50s.
And of course the audience favorite black sexy kitty gets a show-stopping, Hollywood-style number (Liza Minnelli's "The Travelin' Life," which extols the virtues of Mr. Rand and Mr. McNally).
Not all of the puppets in Choo Choo Revue are actually marionettes, as there are many that get wheeled around in various ways...
...whether it's a railroad handcar, a cluster of windmills ("winded mills"), or balls of greenery and flowers ("rolling hills").
There's also a bit of immersion with this show, as Squeaky the puppet goes around the audience, punching the tickets of those sitting in the front row.
The conductor with the clock for a face—a.k.a. Al-A-Board—joins Squeaky at center stage, where they mount a grand finale with their fellow castmates Helios and the knitting moose, Aunt Ler (who takes the spotlight earlier in the show as Odetta's version of "Midnight Special" plays).
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After the final curtain dropped, and as everyone else went for post-show ice cream, I wiped a few tears away and hung around for a little meet and greet with a couple of the puppets...
...including a member of the cicada jug band who plays a matchbox banjo.
There are so many unique details in this new show, I surely missed a lot of them. But I walked away with that feeling you get from a Bob Baker puppet show, the kind you can't easily shake even as you reenter reality.
It's that feeling that keeps me coming back, time and again—no children in tow, elbowing my way into the criss-cross applesauce section to make sure a puppet sits on my lap or a bird lands on my head.
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