The Strange Allure of 'Cats': A Reflection on Silliness, Spectacle, and Primal Appeal
There’s something undeniably bizarre about Cats. I mean, really, what other musical demands you suspend disbelief to watch a troupe of humans in spandex and fur sing about Jellicle Balls and Heaviside Layers? Yet, here we are, decades after its debut, still talking about it. The recent revival at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre has reignited the debate: is Cats a masterpiece of theatrical innovation, or just a deeply, deeply silly spectacle? Personally, I think it’s both—and that’s precisely why it works.
The Primal Pull of Feline Theatrics
One thing that immediately stands out is how Cats taps into something primal. The stalking, preening, and back-arching movements of the cast aren’t just choreography; they’re a mirror to our own fascination with cats. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show transforms these everyday feline behaviors into something almost ritualistic. It’s as if the audience is invited to join a secret society of cat worshippers. But here’s the kicker: it’s not just about the cats. It’s about us. The way we project our own desires, fears, and quirks onto these creatures. Watching Cats feels like watching a funhouse mirror reflection of humanity—equal parts absurd and revealing.
The Musical as a Loose Song Cycle
Let’s talk about the structure—or lack thereof. Cats isn’t a traditional musical with a linear plot. Instead, it’s a series of character sketches loosely tied together by the promise of redemption. From my perspective, this is both its strength and its weakness. On one hand, it allows for moments of pure theatrical magic, like Grizabella’s haunting rendition of Memory. On the other hand, it can feel disjointed, like a series of vignettes that never quite gel. What many people don’t realize is that this fragmentation is intentional. T.S. Eliot’s original poems were never meant to be a cohesive narrative, and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s adaptation leans into that chaos. It’s a musical that doesn’t care about making sense—it just wants to feel.
The Silliness Factor: A Double-Edged Sword
Here’s the thing: Cats is undeniably silly. I mean, we’re talking about a show where characters have names like Bombalurina and Rum Tum Tugger. But what this really suggests is that silliness isn’t a flaw—it’s a feature. In a world that often takes itself too seriously, Cats is a reminder that theater can (and should) be playful. That said, there’s a fine line between charming absurdity and cringe-worthy camp. Drew McOnie’s revival walks that line admirably, but it’s hard not to wince at moments that feel more infantilizing than enchanting. Take, for instance, the breakdancing interlude by Mr. Mistoffelees. It’s impressive, sure, but it also feels like a desperate bid for relevance in a show that’s fundamentally rooted in nostalgia.
The Legacy of Cats: A Cultural Juggernaut
If you take a step back and think about it, Cats is more than just a musical—it’s a cultural phenomenon. It ran for 21 years in the West End, reshaped public taste, and even bolstered the fortunes of Eliot’s publisher, Faber. What’s truly remarkable is how it managed to do all this while being, well, kind of ridiculous. Lloyd Webber’s genius lies not in creating something profound, but in creating something unforgettable. This raises a deeper question: does art need to be serious to be significant? Personally, I think Cats proves that the answer is no. Sometimes, the most enduring works are the ones that embrace their own absurdity.
The Revival: A Safe Bet or a Missed Opportunity?
McOnie’s revival is slick, polished, and undeniably entertaining. But here’s where I’ll be controversial: it plays it too safe. Compared to the drag/ballroom adaptation that recently wowed New York, this version feels pedestrian. It’s a faithful recreation of the original, but it lacks the boldness to reimagine Cats for a new era. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the show’s fourth-wall-breaking moments feel dated rather than revolutionary. In 1981, having cats interact directly with the audience was groundbreaking. In 2023, it feels like a relic of a bygone era.
Final Thoughts: Why Cats Endures
So, is Cats a masterpiece or a mess? In my opinion, it’s both—and that’s why it endures. It’s a show that refuses to be pigeonholed, blending the sublime with the ridiculous in a way that’s both frustrating and fascinating. What makes Cats truly great isn’t its music, its choreography, or even its story. It’s the way it invites us to embrace the absurdity of existence, if only for a couple of hours. As I left the theater, I couldn’t help but think: maybe silliness is the most human thing of all.
