Three stars. Rated PG, for some suggestive humor
By Derrick Bang
From the opening moments and without interruption throughout, director Tom Hooper’s big-screen adaptation of Cats is visually breathtaking: a mesmerizing display of cinematic razzle-dazzle dominated by Paco Delgado’s stunning costume design, Sharon Martin’s equally impressive hair and makeup design, and Andy Blankenbuehler’s inventive choreography.
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| Having unwisely followed the larcenous Rumpleteazer (Naoimh Morgan, left) and Mungojerrie (Danny Collins, right) into a human house, in order to steal anything that catches their fancy, Victoria (Francesca Hayward) is dazzled and distracted by all the finery. |
Theater fans who delight in ostentatious production numbers will be blown away. That’s the only possible reaction.
Those seeking a story to go along with all the visual excess, however, will find this many kibbles short of a full bowl.
In fairness, that shortcoming is equally true of the play. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s staging of T.S. Eliot’s poems in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats was audaciously far-fetched to begin with, and it definitely didn’t resonate in the manner of Phantom of the Opera or Les Misérables. Cats plays more like an opulent cabaret show, with individual production numbers linked by the barest trace of plot.
And a very weird plot, at that.
The film opens ominously, as a car stops in a Soho alley; the driver gets out only long enough to discard a sack with something inside. The car departs; the sack is surrounded by dozens of cats (all actors), who help the young feline inside free herself. This is Victoria (Francesca Hayward, principal ballerina at The Royal Ballet), abandoned by unseen owners. (Human beings never appear in this saga. Nor do dogs, although one is heard.)
Victoria discovers that she has been embraced by a tribe of cats known as the Jellicles, on the very night that matriarch Old Deuteronomy (Judi Dench) will make the “Jellicle choice” that determines which cat will be reborn into a new life, by ascending to the Heaviside Layer.
(One simply must run with this.)
The rest of the film is dominated by the contenders for this honor, each granted a descriptive song and dance that reveals characteristics and talents. In that respect, Cats is somewhat akin to A Chorus Line, building to the triumphant “choosing moment.” But Cats is more full-blown opera, with each lengthy song weaving into the next; very few lines are spoken in dramatic fashion, absent musical accompaniment.
Victoria is charmed by the various candidates, but also drawn to the neighboring “dark side” by the thoroughly evil Macavity (Idris Elba, suitably malevolent), who fancies himself the “Napoleon of Crime.” (That Sherlockian reference is typical of the droll verbal and sight gags, such as a movie theater marquee advertising The Cat and the Canary.) Macavity’s minions include petty burglar cats Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer (Danny Collins and Naoimh Morgan), who do their best to get Victoria into trouble; she’s rescued by shy chaperone Mr. Mistoffelees (Laurie Davidson), the “magical cat.”
Many of these events take place within various human establishments — a lavish flat, a milk bar, the interior of a train sleeper car — that are “enlarged” by production designer Eve Stewart, to match the comparative size of actual cats. These sets are wonderfully imaginative, their contents employed with brio during Blankenbuehler’s dance routines.
Stewart’s exterior sets are equally colorful and vibrant, reflecting a 1930s London that would have been familiar to Eliot: dark graveyards, a decrepit theater and rubbish-strewn back alleys, all rendered in neon pinks, purples and mauves. It’s never less than visually breathtaking.
The stand-out production number belongs to Skimbleshanks (Royal Ballet principal dancer Steven McRae), the “railway cat” unofficially in charge of the Midnight Mail train to Glasgow. His tap routine begins in the musty theater where the Jellicles congregate; the other cats snatch up refuse to fabricate a train-like set, which then — in a seamless transition shot — blossoms into the real thing. It’s bloody awesome.
Stunt casting adds a comedy element to several sequences, starting with James Corden’s hilarious performance as Bustopher Jones, an overweight, impeccably groomed dandy with a taste for life’s finer delicacies. His rotund appearance prompts numerous sight gags during a dance routine dominated by near-miss landings; he also brings considerable verve to his song (“Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town”).
Rebel Wilson similarly riffs on her corpulent frame — and adds a few of her playfully saucy “naughty comments” — as Jennyanydots, a “gumbie cat” who sleeps all day and is regarded as slothful. She relieves her boredom by creating choreographed shows with the mice and cockroaches — also played by actors, properly miniaturized — that she finds within her house.
And boy, this is one outré and oddly repellent number … particularly when the cats start eating the cockroaches.
Taylor Swift pops up toward the climax as Bombalurina, Macavity’s seductive partner-in-crime; Ian McKellen is Gus, the Theatre Cat, whose song reflects past stage glories.
Jennifer Hudson gets the plum song as Grizabella, once a “glamour cat” but now an outcast mocked by the rest of the tribe. Hudson introduces the play’s iconic tune, “Memory,” early on; but her knock-your-socks-off rendition comes in the third act, when — encouraged by Victoria — she defiantly returns to the theater.
Hudson delivers considerable dramatic oomph with this performance, but Hayward’s Victoria has the subtler, more satisfying role. She projects considerable emotional range mostly via mime; Victoria initially is wary and fearful, then more relaxed as she grows comfortable among the Jellicles, and finally is bold enough to go against the tribe — much to Old Deuteronomy’s delight — by championing Grizabella’s cause.
The costumes and makeup are enhanced by visual effects supervisor Steve Preeg’s massive crew; the highlights are the delicate movements of cat ears and tails, always synchronized to music or a dramatic element.
However…
Many (most?) of the “fur” actually is achieved via motion-capture technology — akin to what James Cameron used, in Avatar — and the results are uneven. The overlaid visual effects “costumes” occasionally make the actors appear unpalatably freakish; it’s also apparent, at times, that their feet “hover” slightly above the fabricated “ground,” and that’s simply sloppy.
Additionally, many of the feline “leaps” are clumsy and just not right.
The film includes one new song, “Beautiful Ghosts,” written by Swift and Lloyd Webber. It’s something of a gift to Victoria, who sings it to Grizabella at a key moment.
“Memory” aside, most of the songs are a tricky blend of melody and patter, generally defying any effort to remember them later. Some of the lyrics are clever and punny; others rely too much on repetition.
The film doesn’t “break the fourth wall” as often as the play did, employing this gimmick only at the end, when Dench’s Old Deuteronomy gravely delivers her closing speech — “The Ad-dressing of Cats” — to us viewers.
By which point, many of us viewers may be worn out, or even bored. As Gene Kelly learned, with 1956’s Invitation to the Dance, a series of vignettes told exclusively via mime and dance don’t necessarily make a satisfying viewing experience; the same is true of Cats. If your eyebrows lift skeptically after 15 to 20 minutes, you’re probably better off in some other film.
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