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In her seminal essay, ‘The Politics of Abstraction,’ experimental filmmaker Barbara Hammer advocated that ‘radical content deserves radical form.’ Cats is an adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical of the same name, which, in turn, is an adaptation of T.S. Eliot’s 1939 poetry collection, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. In this version, director Tom Hooper combines the bewildering plot of the stage show with spectacularly uncanny characters to produce a film which is truly radical in both form and content. At a time when mainstream cinema has frequently been accused of being predictable and safe, Cats takes a risk by ignoring all conventional wisdom regarding pacing, character development, and basic narrative coherence to instead deliver a film of pure, bewildering spectacle and camp excess. This is cinema at its purest; the new gold standard for filmic originality.
All taking place in the space of an evening, it begins with a kitten named Victoria (Francesca Hayward) being flung out into the streets of London by her owner, left to fend for herself in a city terrorised by the inexplicably magical cat, Macavity (Idris Elba). She meets a group of alley cats who, for reasons unknown, call themselves the ‘Jellicles,’ and they take her under their wing (or claws, as they’d prefer). An eclectic cohort, boasting the terrifically-named Old Deuteronomy (Judi Dench), Rum Tum Tugger (Jason Derulo), and Mr. Mistoffelees (Laurie Davidson), teaches Victoria their customs as they prepare for the annual Jellicle Ball. This involves each cat putting on a performance for Old Deuteronomy, in the hope that they may be granted the chance to go to the Heaviside Layer and begin a new life there. It is essentially a furry-cult version of The X Factor, except the cats’ faces aren’t quite as traumatising as Simon Cowell’s.
At least, I think that’s what happens. It is worth noting that the first two-thirds of the film are more or less entirely incoherent, as Hooper moves rapidly from song to song without allowing any dialogue to fill in the gaps. Every character introduction produces a new song, which is certainly not necessary but adds to the general sense of chaos that makes Cats the confusing yet oddly engrossing mess it is. Hooper’s fog and neon-soaked vision of London is reminiscent of Ridley Scott’s dystopian image of Los Angeles in Blade Runner (1982), except instead of having Harrison Ford battle morally-ambiguous Replicants, Cats has a meowing Ian McKellen sensually bending over to lap up a saucer of milk.
On the topic of sensuality, Cats belies its ‘U’ certificate to claim the crown of 2019’s most erotic film. Tails throb and pulsate in a manner so phallic, it’d get Freud purring, as Jason Derulo and Taylor Swift (playing the nefarious Bombalurina) compete hard for the title of sexiest cat. Other than his joyous exclamations of ‘MILK!,’ it is very difficult to understand anything that Derulo says. No matter. The relish he exhibits when spraying shots of milk into surrounding cats’ mouths tells us everything we need to know about this particular feline.
Such depictions have led to critics dismissing Cats as repulsive and nightmare-inducing. It is true that the cats look simultaneously far too big and far too small, with certain characters looking like poorly-rendered Snapchat filters and, when Robbie Fairchild’s Munkustrap first appeared on screen, I admit that I felt a mild sense of nausea. But that quickly faded and, after a few minutes, I was able to enjoy the pure, befuddling excess. At a time when the public en masse fawn over the cuteness of Baby Yoda, Hooper offers an image of pure horrific delight: James Corden’s Bustopher Jones, a club-owning cat bedecked in a version of top hat and tails which blurs the distinction between cloth and flesh. It is strange, creepy, and possibly even haunting, but, by Jellicle, is it entertaining.
If the idea of cats making endless self-reflexive puns along the lines of “cat got your tongue” and “the cat’s out of the bag” sounds appealing to you (as it appeals to this writer), this is the film for you. If that doesn’t interest you, how about a feline Ray Winstone fighting a chain-wielding Rebel Wilson on a barge on the River Thames? Hey, even some of the songs are done well (Jennifer Hudson’s Grizabella infuses ‘Memory’ with a credible amount of soul, even if the positioning of songs seems completely random for about 90% of the film).
Watching Cats is a similar experience to delving head-first into the bitter cold of the Irish Sea: you enter with a large gulp of trepidation, the process itself is confusing and often unpleasant, but, once you’re out, you look back with fondness, glad you’ve survived such an exhilarating rush. A cult-classic in the making.
Cats is in Irish cinemas now.
