There is a long history of operas being picked up, shaken about and turned into something else. The most famous example is probably Oscar Hammerstein's Carmen Jones, which made an all-black Broadway musical out of Bizet's Carmen.

Mark Dornford-May has done something similar to Mozart's The Magic Flute, which becomes a kind of multi-lingual South African township pantomime, complete with hissable villains, scary monsters and a sweet young couple who end up getting hitched.

Not that far from Mozart's original in other words, although where Mozart also intended a Masonic allegory, the metaphors here are rather more obscure. Is Sarastro, the wise man whose sect holds power, a Mandela-like figure? If so, does that make the Queen of the Night Winnie Mandela? Perhaps.

The staging's greatest coup is forgoing anything akin to Mozart's orchestra, while holding on to most of his tunes. Instead of strings and winds, we get a battery of marimbas and other African percussion, providing a delicate underlay that allows the singers space to shine.

Most of the principals are classically trained but not so much so that they have forgotten how to communicate. There is a real sense of urgency that transcends the occasional lack of vocal finesse.

The production was first seen before Christmas at the Young Vic and has now transferred to the West End. Perhaps it still needs a few performances to adapt to the rather more formal surroundings of the Duke of York's Theatre, which sometimes seem to hold the show's energy in check.

Within the bare bones of a set, the staging nevertheless moves very fast, with most of the cast singing, dancing and playing, sometimes all at once.

Conductor Mandisi Dyantyis (whose exuberant trumpetplaying stands in wonderfully for the flute itself) keep things flowing smoothly, even though there is no trace of a music stand to be seen: quite a feat of memory for the orchestra.

It's a show that is more about ensemble than solo brilliance, but Zamile Gantana's Papageno is larger than life in more ways than one, while Mhlekazi Andy Mosiea makes a touchingly vulnerable Tamino.

Things are at their best when furthest from Mozart: the Three Boys become a Motown girl group, all sassy cheek and comehither hips, while the all-singing, all-dancing choruses have no equivalent in the original, which will in future seem duller without them.