Monkey: Journey to the West

01/07/07

Meet the monkey. Own the monkey. Nail the
monkey. Know the monkey. Eye the monkey.
You're the monkey.

Monkey's a bit like an acrostic poem. It has all the little bits – Woohoo! The first letter of each sentence spells out a word! – and yet, despite the gimmickry, something very substantial is missing.

On reflection, 'Journey to the West' consists of no more than a series of spectacular moments. Flashes of brilliance sufficiently striking to carry the piece and sustain the awe of the audience but not quite enough for the viewer to leave feeling inspired. It had everything but somehow nothing.

Nonetheless, these intermittent moments are truly magnificent. At times being at Monkey feels like being at the circus, constantly anticipating the next breathtaking trick. It's pretty gymnastic. Contortionists baffle biological limits. An acrobat performs a single-armed handstand on another's head. Soon after, in the closing 'Paradise' sequence, a gaggle of girls in green spin multi-coloured plates, forming a kind of plant-bed then twisting and pirouetting into a flowery pyramid.

Karate, Tai-chi, whatever, martial-arts one way or another features frequently and just as impressively. The monkey commands his spear like a light-sabre, defeating an array of enemies, from a fan-wielding volcano queen to evil forces disguised as all manner of pensioner with stunning warring acrobatics.

Equally dazzling is the occasional animation. The opera begins with the monkey hatching graphically from a rock, tumbling down a cliff-edge and landing in the flesh onstage. Such bursts of cartooning subsequently appear throughout the piece, always engaging and seamlessly interwoven into the live action.

Yesterday's performance of 'Journey to the West' seemed anything but a journey, more of a city to city transportation with none of the travel, process or quirky villages in between. The music was often excellent, the setting frequently remarkable, the acrobatics, martial-arts and animation recurring with sporadic brilliance, yet as a whole it was all a bit forgettable. It had all the little bits but no unit; all the organs but no soul. A bit like an acrostic poem.

By Paul Bentley