The Suitcase Royale in Zombatland

With its cheesy gags, frequent breaks in character and acting so wooden it’s got termites, this part panto, part B-movie could quickly turn off those with no taste for the purposely shoddy. But thanks to its look, feel and sound, you’d be hard pushed to find anyone who isn’t just a little taken in by its charms. 

The proudly goofy Zombatland brings to life a rural Australian caravan park overrun by vicious mutant marsupials, and follows the cowardly Mayor Grogan and his washed-up cricketer brother Darren as, with the help of stock action hero the Stranger, they fight for survival and unearth a dark secret.

The plot, as you may have guessed, is a flippant afterthought, and serves as little more than a vehicle for some carefully choreographed fluffs and fourth wall-breaking horseplay.

Whether you’ll truly fall for Zombatland depends on your tolerance for deliberately naff humour, as there are indeed some absolute clangers in here. But you can’t fail to appreciate just how much blood, sweat and repurposed packaging must have gone into the ramshackle, endlessly versatile playground of a set.

Each new scene throws up some homemade visual treat, be it the DIY gore, the fully functioning crumpet gun or the papier mache diorama (a delight for anyone who’s ever struggled to recreate Blue Peter’s famous Tracy Island model).

It’s all interspersed with grimly funny musical interludes, as the beardy trio peddle murder ballads worthy of Nick Cave or Tom Waits. Their shuffling beats, howling vocals and gallows humour lyrics make these great songs in their own right, providing the other ace in Zombatland’s hand.

The Suitcase Royale have long attracted comparisons to the Mighty Boosh and, judging by what’s on show here, it’s not a label they wish to escape (revolting caravan hag Clarissa is basically Julian Barratt’s Crack Fox in a wig). But if they were to put as much love and attention into the script as they do the sights and sounds, the Boosh would be mere minnows in comparison.