The Enduring Absurdity of 'Cats': A Purr-fectly Ridiculous Spectacle
There’s something undeniably mesmerizing about Cats. Not the kind of mesmerizing that leaves you in awe of its profundity, mind you, but the kind that makes you wonder, “How on earth did this become a global phenomenon?” Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1981 musical, now gracing the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, is a masterclass in theatrical absurdity. Personally, I think what makes this production particularly fascinating is how it manages to be both deeply silly and utterly captivating. It’s like watching a trainwreck in slow motion—you can’t look away, even as you’re questioning every creative decision.
The Primal Appeal of Pretentious Pussycats
One thing that immediately stands out is the show’s ability to tap into something primal—or perhaps infantile—in its audience. The cast, decked out in leotards, prosthetic ears, and tails, moves with a mix of stalking, preening, and back-arching that feels both hypnotic and bizarre. From my perspective, this is where Cats truly shines (or fails, depending on your tolerance for anthropomorphized felines). The choreography, led by Drew McOnie, is undeniably impressive, but it’s hard not to feel a twinge of secondhand embarrassment as these grown adults slink around pretending to be cats. What many people don’t realize is that this very absurdity is what makes Cats so enduring. It’s not just a musical; it’s a cultural oddity that defies explanation.
A Plot That’s More Framework Than Substance
Let’s be honest: the plot of Cats is flimsy at best. It’s essentially a series of character sketches loosely tied together by a resurrection/redemption story. The Jellicle Ball, where the cats gather to determine who will ascend to the Heaviside Layer, feels more like a pretext for showcasing individual performances than a coherent narrative. In my opinion, this is both the show’s greatest weakness and its greatest strength. By stripping away traditional storytelling, Cats forces the audience to focus on the spectacle itself—the costumes, the movement, the sheer audacity of it all. If you take a step back and think about it, it’s a brilliant move. Who needs a plot when you have actors breakdancing in cat suits?
The Music: Earworms and Eccentricity
The music of Cats is a mixed bag, to say the least. While “Memory” remains a powerhouse ballad, the rest of the score veers wildly between pop-rock, light jazz, and even a hint of reggae. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the songs reflect T.S. Eliot’s original poems, which were written for his godchildren. There’s a childlike whimsy to the lyrics, but when paired with the grandiose production, it creates a jarring contrast. What this really suggests is that Cats is a show that refuses to take itself seriously—and that’s precisely why it works. It’s not trying to be profound; it’s trying to be fun, even if that fun comes at the expense of good taste.
The Legacy of a Cultural Oddity
What makes Cats truly remarkable is its enduring legacy. Originally directed by Trevor Nunn and choreographed by Gillian Lynne, the show ran for 21 years in the West End and became a global sensation. Lloyd Webber’s decision to adapt Eliot’s poems was, at the time, a radical gamble. But as we’ve seen with his recent reworkings of past hits, he has a knack for shaping—or perhaps manipulating—public taste. This raises a deeper question: Why do we continue to embrace Cats despite its obvious flaws? In my opinion, it’s because the show embraces its own absurdity. It doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is—a deeply, deeply silly spectacle.
The Revival: Safe but Still Surreal
McOnie’s revival at Regent’s Park is a safe bet, perhaps too safe. Compared to the drag/ballroom adaptation that wowed New York, this version feels pedestrian. But maybe that’s the point. Cats doesn’t need to reinvent itself; it just needs to exist in all its ridiculous glory. The cast, particularly Taziva-Faye Katsande as Grizabella, delivers performances that are both earnest and over-the-top. And let’s not forget the moment when Macavity exits through a ring of fire, a detail that unpleasantly reminded me of the infamous “butthole cut” of the 2019 film adaptation. What many people don’t realize is that Cats thrives on these moments of sheer absurdity. It’s a show that dares you to take it seriously—and then laughs when you try.
Final Thoughts: Why We Can’t Look Away
As I sat in the audience, surrounded by the smoke and lighting that conjured the Jellicle Ball, I couldn’t help but smile. Cats is not a perfect musical, nor does it try to be. It’s a testament to the power of pure, unapologetic spectacle. Personally, I think its enduring appeal lies in its ability to make us question why we love it in the first place. Is it the music? The choreography? The sheer audacity of the concept? Or is it simply the fact that it’s so delightfully, undeniably silly?
If you take a step back and think about it, Cats is a mirror held up to our own cultural obsessions. It’s a show that refuses to be ignored, even as it defies all logical explanation. And in a world that often takes itself too seriously, maybe that’s exactly what we need. So, the next time you find yourself humming “Memory” or chuckling at the sight of grown adults in cat costumes, remember this: Cats isn’t just a musical—it’s a phenomenon. And in its own bizarre, brilliant way, it’s purr-fect.
