Cats

Critics live for movies like Cats. For these rare occasions when something this inexplicably disastrous actually makes it out into the world. Movies that give us a chance to flex our literary muscles – to show off a little, by being clever, by being cruel. The next thing you know, there’s something of an undeclared contest to see who can come up with the punniest putdown.

If you’re here looking for an unhinged, off the rails rant, you’re not going to get it. Cats didn’t make me angry. Mortified. Confused. Perplexed. But not angry. Most of all, I’m astonished, that such a thing as this actually exists.

Our story takes place in a post-apocalyptic London. In a Planet of the Apes like future where ailurophiles – the filthy degenerates they are – have finally succumbed to their baser instincts and consummated their relationships with their feline companions. The resulting offspring, a terrifying crossbreed between anthropoid and cat, abominations to the natural order, forsaken by God and heaven, have since wiped out their human masters and now roam the barren streets in tribes. 

Every year, these tribes take part in a ritual sacrifice, a reverse Hunger Games, where one cat, based entirely on his or her ability to sing and dance, is chosen and sent away in a hot air balloon to die and be reborn. It’s one-part The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, one-part Hindu notions of karma and reincarnation, and one-part Christian death and resurrection.

This isn’t quite the plot of Cats. But I figured that since the movie isn’t going to give me anything to work with, I might as well fill in the blanks. I figured the movie might work better if I approached it as a piece of sci-fi body horror as envisioned by David Cronenberg. It doesn’t. 

As I sat down to watch Cats, news broke that Universal – at Tom Hooper’s request – was releasing an updated version of the movie with “some improved visual effects”. An unprecedented move that feels akin to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Yes, the characters look like someone deepfaked the faces of really famous actors and singers onto the bodies of animated cats. Yes, the movie is littered with so much unfinished CGI that you wonder how it was released in the first place. Yes, the movie is completely incongruous with regards to the scale and perspective of the cats and the world they inhabit. (Are they human sized? Are they cat sized?) And yet, none of this comes close to explaining why Cats fails as a piece of cinema.

The blame for that lies entirely with Tom Hooper. This movie’s original sin lies in its very conception. In one man’s unfettered and misguided attempt at giving cinematic weight to what is essentially a series of gaudy novelty songs strung together with the loosest of narrative threads.

The Andrew Lloyd Webber original, based on the 1939 poetry collection Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T. S. Eliot, is an anthology style, sung-through musical, that does away with the idea of a protagonist, any sort of world-building, or rising and falling action. It is the musical equivalent to a concept album. It is nonsensical by nature and, given its poetic roots, is by-and-large plotless. 

Cats works on stage. It works as a Saturday afternoon matinee. It doesn’t work as a film. In fact, there isn’t a single directorial decision here that works. 

Hooper tries to give the musical some narrative heft by elevating the character of Victoria the White Cat to the position of protagonist. I presume the reason for this was so we, the audience, have a surrogate by which to experience this world. The problem is that Victoria remains a character with very little to do or say. Someone forgot to tell Hooper that merely pointing the camera in Francesca Hayward’s general vicinity does not magically create a compelling lead. Regardless of how talented she is.

It baffles me how one could assemble a cast as accomplished as Judi Dench, Ian McKellen, Idris Elba, Jennifer Hudson, Jason Derulo, Taylor Swift, Rebel Wilson, Francesca Hayward, and Ray Winstone (yeah, yeah, James Corden is in it too), and somehow still elicit such mediocrity. No one seems to know who they’re supposed to be or what they’re supposed to do. They’re not quite committed to being a cat. And they can’t seem to summon the emotion required by Hooper’s insistent camera closeups. Their performances are so muddled that there are minute long cat videos on Instagram that do a better job of provoking a response.

And then there’s the moment everyone was waiting for. Even if you know nothing about Cats, you know “Memory”. That jarringly out of place earworm. That Pucciniesque knockoff. You’ve heard Barry Manilow try it. You’ve heard Barbra Streisand do it. You’ve heard it belted out at your niece’s pre-school musical. Waiting for “Memory” in Cats is like waiting for Clapton to do “Layla”, or for Springsteen to do “Born to Run”, or for the Spice Girls to do “Wannabe”.

So here you are, at the very end of the third act, hoping beyond hope, with little reason or justification, that Jennifer Hudson will somehow save this travesty of a film. And what does Hooper do? He cuts away from her at the end of every verse. Constantly undermining what should be the emotional core of the movie. He puts one of the greatest performers of this generation front and center and doesn’t have the courtesy of keeping the damn camera on her. 

Tom Hooper has absolutely nothing to say with Cats. Nothing new. Nothing old. There is no attempt at all to justify its existence. Which would be fine, if he at least had the confidence to trust that its reason for being was simply in its being. Which would be fine, if we were at least allowed the joy of just watching singers sing and dancers dance. Alas, what we have, is a 100-million-dollar act of complete and utter hubris.

Cats
109 minutes
Director: Tom Hooper
Writers: Lee Hall and Tom Hooper
Cast: James Corden, Judi Dench, Ian McKellen, Idris Elba, Jennifer Hudson, Jason Derulo, Taylor Swift, Rebel Wilson, Francesca Hayward, and Ray Winstone