The Strange Allure of 'Cats': A Reflection on Silliness, Spectacle, and Primal Appeal
There’s something undeniably bizarre about Cats. I mean, really, think about it: a musical where humans in leotards and prosthetic ears prance around, pretending to be felines, while singing about resurrection and redemption. It’s absurd. And yet, here we are, decades after its debut, still talking about it. What is it about this show that keeps drawing us in?
The Primal Pull of the Feline
One thing that immediately stands out is the way 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. From my perspective, this is where the show’s genius lies. Cats, as pets, are both mysterious and relatable. They’re independent yet affectionate, wild yet domesticated. The musical amplifies these traits, turning them into a spectacle that feels almost hypnotic.
But here’s the kicker: it’s also deeply silly. Watching actors slink down aisles, studying the audience with ‘disdainful curiosity,’ is equal parts mesmerizing and ridiculous. Personally, I think this duality is what makes Cats so enduring. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and neither should we.
The Jellicle Ball: A Framework for Chaos
The Jellicle Ball, with its resurrection narrative, is essentially a thin veneer for what’s really going on: a series of character sketches. Grizabella, Mr. Mistoffelees, Rum Tum Tugger—these aren’t just cats; they’re exaggerated archetypes. What many people don’t realize is that T.S. Eliot’s original poems were written for children, and that innocence shines through. The names alone—Bombalurina, Jennayanydots—feel like something out of a fever dream.
What this really suggests is that Cats isn’t just a musical; it’s a cultural artifact. It’s a snapshot of a bygone era, when theaters had resident cats and Ealing comedies shaped our idea of British humor. If you take a step back and think about it, the show’s nostalgia is as much a part of its appeal as its spectacle.
The Music: Earworms and Eccentricity
Let’s talk about the music. ‘Memory’ is, of course, the standout—a soaring anthem that’s impossible to forget. But the rest of the score? It’s a hodgepodge. Pop-rock, light jazz, even a hint of reggae. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the lyrics stress different syllables in ways that are both irksome and addictive. It’s like the show is daring you to either love it or hate it—no middle ground.
This raises a deeper question: does Cats work because it’s good, or because it’s so uniquely strange? In my opinion, it’s the latter. Andrew Lloyd Webber didn’t just create a musical; he created an experience. One that’s as much about the audience’s reaction as it is about the performance itself.
The Revival: A Safe Bet in a Bold World
Drew McOnie’s revival at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre is slick and well-executed, but it’s also safe. Compared to the drag/ballroom adaptation that wowed New York, this version feels almost pedestrian. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it highlights the tension between preserving a classic and reinventing it.
Lloyd Webber’s dedication to reworking his hits is admirable, especially after the 2019 film debacle (yes, I’m still haunted by those CGI anuses). But this revival doesn’t take risks. It relies on the show’s inherent weirdness to carry it, and for the most part, it works.
The Legacy: A Cultural Juggernaut
Here’s where Cats gets really interesting: its impact. It was radical in its time—stripped-back sets, fourth-wall-breaking cats—and it became the West End’s longest-running show until Les Misérables dethroned it. It even boosted T.S. Eliot’s publisher, Faber. What this really suggests is that Cats isn’t just a musical; it’s a cultural force.
But let’s be honest: it’s also deeply, deeply silly. And that’s okay. In a world where art is often taken too seriously, Cats reminds us to embrace the absurd.
Final Thoughts: Why We Keep Coming Back
If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably either a die-hard fan or someone who’s still trying to wrap their head around the phenomenon. Personally, I think Cats endures because it’s a mirror to our own contradictions. We crave spectacle, but we also love silliness. We’re drawn to the primal, but we’re also nostalgic for the past.
So, the next time you find yourself watching humans in cat costumes sing about the Heaviside Layer, remember this: Cats isn’t just a musical. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most enduring art is the kind that doesn’t take itself too seriously. And in a world that often does, that’s something worth celebrating.
