Which Characters Did Netflix Cut From Journey To The West?

If someone asked me for a single pick, I'd reach for Anthony C. Yu's four-volume translation of 'The Journey to the West' every time. I first stumbled into his edition during a late-night research spiral in college — one of those weird, caffeine-fueled reading sessions where you fall down a rabbit hole of footnotes and then come up hours later feeling smarter and oddly satisfied. Yu gives you the whole beast: the prose, the poetry, the religious and cultural commentary woven into the text, and copious notes that actually help you understand why certain scenes were written the way they were. For anyone interested in the novel as literature or as a cultural artifact, his translation is thorough and respectful without leaving out the authorial voice. That said, not everyone wants a scholarly immersion. If you want to be entertained first and educated later, Arthur Waley's 'Monkey' is still a joyful, pacy abridgement that introduced this story to a lot of Western readers. I often tell friends to read Waley as a gateway — it's witty, sharp, and reads like a classic adventure tale. Then, if they get hooked, Yu is waiting with depth and texture. Between those two extremes you can find modern retellings and condensed versions that bring the Monkey King into comics, kids’ books, or film adaptations like Stephen Chow’s work; they’re fun detours but won’t replace either Waley's accessibility or Yu’s comprehensiveness. Personally, I like starting with a light read and circling back to Yu when I'm ready to nerd out on the religious symbolism and poetic inserts.

I still grin whenever I think about the first time I reread 'Journey to the West' on a rainy afternoon — Sun Wukong bursts off the page with so much mischief and supernatural swagger that you forget he's also tragic and stubborn. His powers are a crazy, layered mix of raw physicality, Taoist-Buddhist magic, and clever trickery. Physically he’s absurdly strong and fast: he can change his size from the microscopic to the towering, fight gods and demons toe-to-toe, and perform the famous 108,000 li somersault on his cloud to travel enormous distances in a blink. Then there’s his weapon, the Ruyi Jingu Bang, a bar that obeys his will, shifts size, and can clamp down with ridiculous force. On the magical front he’s unforgettable. He learned 72 transformations, so he can turn into animals, objects, and people — perfect for pranks or stealth. His hairs are basically a magic toolkit: pluck one and he can make a clone, create a weapon, or transform it into a minion. He’s essentially immortal through a pileup of methods — Daoist elixirs, eating heavenly peaches, stealing sacred pills — so death is a very relative concept for him. Don’t forget his fiery eyes and golden pupils; these let him see through disguises and spot demons hiding among humans. Add in expert martial arts, cloud-riding, resistance to many spells and poisons, and a stubborn defiance that often turns the tide in battle. What I love is how these powers reflect his personality: playful, rebellious, resourceful. Reading him feels like watching a street performer who can also punch holes in mountains — chaotic but brilliant. Whether you meet him in the novel, in stage plays, or modern retellings, those core abilities keep making him one of my favorite trickster-heroes to think about.

I grew up elbow-deep in battered paperbacks and library stacks, and one thing that always stuck with me about 'Journey to the West' is how many layers its central trek has. On the surface, Sun Wukong's journey west with the monk Tang Sanzang is driven by a practical, almost bureaucratic goal: to fetch Buddhist scriptures from India that will help save sentient beings. That mission comes straight from the historical model of the real monk Xuanzang, whose travels were recorded in texts like 'Great Tang Records on the Western Regions'. In the novel, Guanyin and the Buddha set the pilgrimage in motion—so there’s a cosmic mandate behind it, not just a personal whim. Under that mandate, though, are a tangle of personal motives. Wukong is propelled by his own restless spirit: he craves immortality, recognition, and eventually redemption for his revolt against Heaven. He starts as a trickster and a rogue who wants freedom and power, but the pilgrimage forces him into constraints—chains, supervision, and moral tests—that slowly reshape him. I love that mix: outward duty combined with inward change. Wu Cheng'en wrote this as a rich allegory—part religious curriculum, part satire of Ming bureaucracy, part folk epic—so the journey is meant to be educational, spiritual, and entertaining all at once. Honestly, my favorite thing is that the story borrows from Daoist longevity quests, Buddhist soteriology, folk monkey-myths, and the real historical pilgrimage. It’s like a cultural stew: political jabs at the Heavenly court, the philosophical tug between desire and awakening, and a parade of monsters who are really moral tests. Every time I reread it I spot a different layer, and I still get a kick from imagining Sun Wukong’s grin when he realizes the trip isn’t just about scriptures—it's about growing up, in the roughest possible way.

Whenever I tell friends about the Monkey King's origin I still get a little giddy — his birth is classic myth-level cool. In 'Journey to the West' he literally pops out of a magical stone on the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. The rock had absorbed the essence of Heaven and Earth, and after a thunderstorm and years of weathering, a stone egg split and out came a stone monkey who quickly proved himself clever, bold, and impossibly curious. He became king of the wild monkeys, then set off to learn immortality. He studies under a sage often called Puti (or Subhuti), learns the 72 transformations, the cloud-somersault (jindou yun), and gains the Ruyi Jingu Bang — the size-changing staff he pulls from the Dragon King's treasury. His name, Sun Wukong (孫悟空), hints at his arc: 'Sun' as a family name for monkeys and 'Wukong' meaning something like 'awakened to emptiness.' That spiritual irony — a rowdy trickster pursuing enlightenment — is what makes him so magnetic. The canonical novel we read today was put together in the Ming period, usually credited to Wu Cheng'en, but the figure of the Monkey King had floated through folk tales, opera, and storytellers long before that. Symbolically he's a blend of Daoist immortality-seeker, Buddhist pilgrim, and shamanic trickster. I love how his origin is both earthy — a fist-sized rock cracking open — and cosmic, packed with metaphysical meaning. If you’re into adaptations, chase down some older operas or animated versions after you read the original; each retelling highlights different quirks of his origin and personality.

Every time I sit down with 'Journey to the West' I’m struck by how the pilgrimage reads like a crash course in faith — not the neat, doctrinal kind but a messy, lived faith that gets knocked around, repaired, and strengthened. The book shows faith as perseverance: the long road to India is full of temptations, monsters, and setbacks, and the characters’ belief in the mission keeps them going. Tripitaka’s faith is stubborn and pure; he trusts the scriptures and the mission even when he’s scapegoated or endangered. Sun Wukong’s faith, by contrast, is earned. His transformation from rebel trickster to enlightened protector happens through trials that force him to trust others and to submit to a higher law. I also love how faith in the story is practical — it’s enacted. Reciting sutras, seeking Guanyin’s help, following ritual protocols, and accepting discipline are all portrayed as paths to inner change. The text argues that faith without practice is hollow: Pigsy’s repeated failures show how unchecked desire undermines belief, while Sha Wujing’s steady loyalty shows the quiet power of disciplined faith. There’s a humility lesson too: heroes get rescued precisely because they learn to rely on wisdom beyond their own strength. Finally, the novel treats faith as relational. The pilgrims’ bonds, the divine helpers, and the cosmic bureaucracy all suggest that faith connects you to a network of moral and spiritual support. For me, reading it on a rainy afternoon made that feel personal — faith wasn’t just about doctrine, it was about showing up, trusting the process, and learning from every detour.

Whenever I get into debates with friends about Chinese classics, these two always come up as if they’re cousins who grew up on different planets. 'Investiture of the Gods' (Fengshen Yanyi) feels like a giant mythic saga about the collapse of a dynasty, political intrigue, and the creation of a divine bureaucracy. It reads almost like an epic history with gods being appointed at the end — lots of tragic human drama, battlefield descriptions, and long lists of who becomes which deity. The moral lens often points at fate, loyalty, and the messy cost of regime change. By contrast, 'Journey to the West' is a pilgrimage story at heart. It’s episodic and playful, built around a travel plot where spiritual development is the goal. The humor and character work are what hooked me: Sun Wukong’s rebellious energy, Zhu Bajie’s laziness and appetite, the monk’s piety and naiveté — they turn each monster encounter into a lesson about desire, discipline, and redemption. The tone swings between slapstick and deep Buddhist metaphors, which makes rereading it feel like peeling layers off an onion. If you like sweeping cosmology and origin myths, start with 'Investiture of the Gods'. If you prefer character-driven, philosophical adventures with a steady quest arc, 'Journey to the West' will feel more intimate. I love both, but they scratch different itches — one satisfies my taste for political-mythic worldbuilding, the other my craving for mischievous heroes and spiritual catharsis.

As someone who's obsessed with Chinese mythology, I see 'Creation of the Gods' and 'Journey to the West' as two sides of the same epic coin. 'Journey to the West' is the ultimate adventure story, packed with humor and supernatural battles as Tang Sanzang's crew fights demons. The characters are vibrant, especially Sun Wukong with his rebellious charm. 'Creation of the Gods' is darker, focusing on political intrigue and divine warfare during the fall of the Shang dynasty. The gods here are more like chess players, manipulating mortals for cosmic balance. If you want fun, go with 'Journey'. If you prefer tragedy and strategy, 'Creation' wins.

As someone deeply immersed in Chinese literature, I can confidently say there are several fantasy novels that share the mythical charm and epic scale of 'Journey to the West'. 'Investiture of the Gods' by Xu Zhonglin is a classic, blending mythology, politics, and divine warfare in a way that feels both grand and intricate. It’s packed with gods, demons, and legendary heroes, much like 'Journey to the West'. Another standout is 'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio' by Pu Songling, a collection of supernatural stories that delve into folklore with a poetic touch. While it’s more episodic, the whimsical tone and rich cultural references make it a worthy companion. For a modern take, 'The Three-Body Problem' by Liu Cixin might seem like a stretch, but its cosmic scale and philosophical depth echo the adventurous spirit of 'Journey to the West'. If you’re into wuxia with fantasy elements, 'Legends of the Condor Heroes' by Jin Yong offers a mix of martial arts and mythical undertones, though it’s more grounded in human drama. Each of these works captures a slice of the magic that makes 'Journey to the West' timeless.