The floor of the Pit theatre looks as if it has been visited by a Golden Goose. But instead of laying golden eggs, it has laid a vast pile of two pence pieces. Could this be the Barbican's contribution to quantitative easing? Money and magic are certainly equated in the Pacitti Company's A Forest, a beautiful but elusive show that takes the audience on a journey into the darkest part of the woods, where the stories are as gnarled as ancient trees, the ravens flap their wings, and the trolls and witches of the human psyche lurk in the bushes.
Part seance and part religious ceremony, A Forest places the audience in a magic circle, where stories can be heard, wishes can be made and rituals observed. There is even a collection box. The word FOOL is written in bread as if Hansel and Gretel recently passed this way. A woman offers us her breasts and some pig's trotters; a man lies naked on the bed of coins, has hot wax dripped on his skin and a little forest of trees sprout from his flesh. Another tells us twisted little fairytales: of the wayward and selfish Gut who meets Fe Fi Fo Fum in the forest; the lonely man who makes a pincushion of his heart just to remind himself that he can feel something.
There is almost an overload of images. The woman binds the man with blood-red and golden threads and writes MINE on his arm; she ties antlers to his back. There is incense and fire, the sound of ravens rising and insects buzzing. It is like being in the grip of an enchantment. "What is it you really want?" we are asked. The money gleams in the darkness. Fool's gold.
