The Mongol Khan, review: Oh no he can’t

The first thing to know about this Mongolian history show is that the khan in question is not Genghis. Instead, this soft-power bid from the tiny nation wriggling free of Russia and China (the latter has banned it for fear of rousing separatist sympathies) is set 2,000 years ago, although its arrival here marks a more recent event: 60 years since Britain established diplomatic relations with Mongolia. But despite that interesting backdrop, and a 70-strong cast, this epic production is, alas, epically boring.

Written in 1998 by Lkhagvasuren Bavuu, it features a khan with succession woes. His queen and his concubine have given birth to princes within days of each other, however the queen’s child was actually fathered by the khan’s scheming advisor. When the suspicious khan makes the concubine’s son his heir, the advisor swaps the babies.

That set-up could easily be conveyed in one scene, even a prologue, but no: it takes up the entire first half. Everyone lays out their plans like long-winded Bond villains, and then recaps them to cover scene changes. The pace is punishingly glacial, but you don’t get the compensating artistic pleasures of, say, opera, ballet or a Shakespeare play for such a broad-brush, soapy plot.

The declamatory dialogue, translated into English surtitles by historian John Man (apparently aided by his playwright wife Timberlake Wertenbaker, although frankly that’s hard to believe), is choked with overworked similes. It swings wildly from calls to the ancestral spirits to liberal use of the word “arse” or downright bizarre images – like the khan seeking a woman “with a moonlight complexion luminous enough to read by”. Sure, but does her complexion have a dimmer switch?

The murder-heavy second half should be a great tragedy, but there’s so little character development that it’s difficult to care. Hero Baatar’s production works best as an exorbitant spectacle crowding the Coliseum stage, with a giant chorus of robed dancers moving as one like a flock of birds. Even then, it’s oddly tame. There’s a mere glimmer of Cirque du Soleil-esque acrobatics, a superfluous dragon puppet coughing up smoke, a cursory sword fight, and some animal masks that pale in comparison to The Lion King.

The martial music is like a bad movie score, with portentous cues crashing in every other line; you start to tune it out. The lavish costumes range from the traditional to body suits featuring blood vessels and very prominent breasts, paired with dark goggles. Add in heavy breathing and suggestive moans, and it’s weirdly kinky.

The acting style is thunderously melodramatic. Erdenebileg Ganbold does have mighty presence as the khan, but, since the audiences always has more information than him, it’s hard to buy that he’s a wise leader. Bold-Erdene Sugar is a cackling baddie, Uranchimeg Urtnasan a tormented queen, and Dorjsuren Shadav a camp tyrant-in-waiting. The characterisation of the latter is particularly uncomfortable: his disability is equated with weakness and malevolence.

Cultural exchange is always welcome, especially one with admirable diplomatic underpinnings. However, I highly doubt audiences here will be roused by the propagandist message of putting “the state” ahead of people, or by a show that prizes might above all.

Until Dec 2. Tickets: 020 7845 9300; londoncoliseum.org