Review: ‘Cats’ is Just the Betrayal of Artistry We Were Hoping For
“I judge a cat by its soul…”
After much anticipation and speculation, the moment has come for the Jellicle Choice. Now is the time for a host of felines to perform in hopes of being selected by Old Deuteronomy (Judy Dench) and be given the chance to ascend to the Heaviside Layer to be reborn. Enter Victoria (Francesca Hayward), a starry-eyed young cat eager to be initiated to the Jellicle ranks. Through her we are hurtled from one musical number to the next as we are introduced to the likes of Gus the Theatre Cat (Ian McKellan), Grizabella (Jennifer Hudson), Bombularina (Taylor Swift), and the dastardly Macavity (Idris Elba). With such a wide and eclectic cast, the onslaught of ridiculous characters runs the gambit of entertainment value as you try to piece together who is who and why anyone is making the choices they are. Jason Derulo’s milk-guzzling antics are far more raucous and jaunty than Hudson dramatically belting her heart out, and James Corden and Rebel Wilson spend their entire screen time committed to downright grating ad libs. And as such, Cats proceeds unabated for nearly 2 hours.
So vexing is this film, that from the start to question the purpose of this adaptation. Without any sort of coherency or character development, there really is nothing to distract from how god awful this film is to look at. Every close up is a harrowing experience as the human faces of each cat seem barely tethered in place, staring directly into your soul with uncanny veneers atop skin-tight vessels of fur. It’s no better in a wide shot, where the cats’ proportions leave the screen awkwardly empty against poorly rendered backdrops.
Director Tom Hooper plays it so safe that any artistry is stripped from the film. What could have been an opportunity for costuming and makeup effects to shine was instead shot on a soundstage with fur and whiskers added in post. It feels hyper-choreographed and coached, rejecting art for the best technology money can buy. But all of Cats’ noxious wealth cannot save it from itself. The film is an unfortunate example where a project required so much post-production work that it was doomed to never finish on time, riddled with so many noticeable errors that new and improved versions of the film were issued to save face. For me, the telltale sign of a shorthanded post-production was how the collar tags seemed to float above cats fur in a subtle yet effective protest against the laws of physics.
Between this and Disney’s reimagining of The Lion King, the uncanny valley has become a popular destination in 2019. The trending replacement of creativity by studios’ self-destructive dependence on CGI is enough to leave any lover of the cinema feeling nihilistic.
The general lack of regard for design or reason suggests Cats takes place in a lawless oblivion. Macavity’s magic is introduced with a whiplash-inducing nonchalance, as are anthropomorphic mice and cockroaches that populate dance numbers. And though we do not get to see it, we are forced to reckon with the thought that a dog too, might also have a human face. A clash between cat and human mannerisms leaves them lapping at milk from a saucer one moment and holding forks and knives the next.
Additionally, the sheer eroticism of the cats themselves is always present and always uncomfortable. Some of the cats seem to have a concept of clothes while others do not, others only wear shoes which may be the most disturbing of all. Their scant costuming leaves their skin-tight fur and Ken-doll bodies the focal point of the whole film. In conjunction with suggestive tail use, Taylor Swift’s sultry crooning, and a catnip-induced dance orgy, the film truly pushes the parameters of what’s permissible in a PG rating. It constantly seems like it is about to break out into something much less family friendly, something more geared for a dark corner of the internet.
As negative as this all may sound, there is ample delight to be had in the absurdity. Yes, please trot out Skimbleshanks the railway cat now to do his little song and tap dance for me. Let us bask in it with the lurid revulsion of a bunch of schoolchildren gawking at the circus come to town. Cats is at its best when it’s fully committed to the act, taking its melodrama seriously enough that it seems to be begging to be disrespected. It will surely find its home on the screens of art house cinemas after 11pm for years to come, whipping audiences into a fervor for the the magical delights of Mister Mistoffelees and the erotic iconography of The Rum Tum Tugger.
Thanks to Tom Hooper, we now have a new gold standard for unethical filmmaking. Cats is a soulless, strung-together abomination of stardom and budget that somehow skated all the way to distribution in the blind spot of anyone with a shred of taste. And yet, the experience of seeing it unfold into madness is priceless. Treat your family to this Jellicle nightmare this holiday season, and dear reader, consider pouring yourself a little eggnog before the trip.
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