‘Cats’ is nightmarish, but deserves respect

The Telegraph gave it zero stars. The Independent called it a “collective hallucination”. The Financial Times branded it as “worryingly erotic”. So, naturally, I booked my ticket to see director Tom Hooper’s latest movie musical, Cats. And God, what a mistake. There is much chagrin from viewers at the lack of plot and terrible soundtrack in Cats, but this will not come as a surprise to those familiar with the stage musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. The story is essentially junkyard, furry X Factor, in which the “Jellicle” cats compete to ascend to the “Heaviside Layer”, or cat heaven. That’s it.

Said jellicle cats are actors who, I assume, are trying to stay ‘pawsitive’ amongst the onslaught of criticism that Cats has garnered. Ballerina Francesca Hayward plays the lead, Victoria, whose movements are beautiful, almost making up for the fact that she seemingly has three expressions – quizzical, scared or aroused. James Corden’s comedic Bustopher Jones is sarcastic and enjoyable, but I’m left wondering whether Corden has a metatheatrical understanding of the camp-ness of the film, or whether it’s his innate comfortability in playing an overweight clown for laughs.

Close, heavy breathing features throughout the film; which is tolerable after the heavy dance numbers, but feels a strange and uncomfortable way of expressing emotion in other scenes

One of the film’s villains, Bombalurina, showcases Taylor Swift’s skill as a performer, which helps to distract from her exaggerated British accent. Her song is musically acceptable but visually overtly sexual, as she shimmies her improbably large cat breasts, soundtracked by the uncomfortably heavy breathing of the lustful male cats. Close, heavy breathing features throughout the film; which is tolerable after the heavy dance numbers, but feels a strange and uncomfortable way of expressing emotion in other scenes, especially as a cat.

Similarly strangely sensual is the main villain, Idris Elba’s Macavity, who unveils a set of oddly defined cat abs during this song, but bafflingly a Barbie smooth crotch; the lack of genitalia is the most notable part of Elba’s performance. Jason Derulo is likewise bare, both in terms of airbrushed bulge and notability. However, in this film, it is perhaps an indication of skill to be unremarkable.

Some of the more ‘pawthetic’ performances come from the rest of the cast. Rebel Wilson’s song is the most bewildering of all, featuring a tap-dancing cockroach sequence coupled with an extended crotch scratching shot that makes me begin to wonder if she has some sort of feline STD. Jennifer Hudson’s Grizabella is also a miss, as her ever-present trail of snot is more attention-grabbing than her rendition of ‘Memory’.

In this film, it is perhaps an indication of skill to be unremarkable

Most disconcerting of all, however, are Dame Judi Dench and Sir Ian McKellen’s performances. Dench’s skilful acting as Old Deutronomy is distracted from by strange attributes such as her wearing a gigantic pimp-like coat made out of her own fur, or CGI stretching her leg impossibly far over her own head. McKellen’s elderly Gus seems permanently lost in a strong emotion that I can’t quite grasp – perhaps early onset cat dementia? And in one scene, slurps from a saucer and lets out a strangled “meow meow meow” that feels unbecoming of such a talented actor; as the audience watches theatrical royalty forced into undignified catsuits.

In Hooper’s vision, London is a neon, glistening fever dream. This aesthetic, coupled with some strange, shaky camera angle choices, makes me feel as though I’ve taken more than just catnip. As the sun rises at the end of the film, Hooper’s damned creations are even more horrifying in the daylight. But these creatures are simultaneously an act against God, and yet not made avant-garde enough with the creators CGI choices.

This aesthetic, coupled with some strange, shaky camera angle choices, makes me feel as though I’ve taken more than just catnip

Despite Universal sending cinemas an updated version of the film, Dench’s bare human hands, complete with a wedding ring, are still visible in the version that I see. With these human attributes, it feels even stranger when the ensemble hiss and claw.  There’s a moment where the cats simultaneously meow and clap – a stark example of the weird mix of human and animal that Hooper seems reluctant to choose between. They nuzzle and rub against each other and it strikes me that as weird as it may have been to film, it is weirder to watch.

However, weird doesn’t necessarily mean bad. I respect Hooper’s attempt at bringing stage to screen, even if the outcome is nightmarish. Cats has discombobulated the world and will no doubt go down as a significant cultural moment, despite only making $6.5 million thus far. The fervent and disturbed reactions prompted by Cats are a refreshing break from the predictable success of yet another Marvel film, or Fast and Furious 78. Films that change and challenge the world will always be infinitely more captivating. Cats is neither; and what it really is, we may never know.