The Unapologetic Absurdity Of 'Cats': Why We Keep Falling For This Feline Farce
Let me confess something: I’ve never fully understood the allure of Cats. And yet, every revival—from the 1981 original to this latest Regent’s Park iteration—forces me to confront a nagging truth: this show is a masterclass in theatrical alchemy. It transforms T.S. Eliot’s whimsical poems for children into a two-hour spectacle of humans pretending to be cats, set to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s most forgettably catchy tunes. How does this nonsense endure? That’s the question gnawing at me long after the curtain fell.
The Genius Of Selling Absurdity As Depth
At its core, Cats is a Rorschach test for theatergoers. The plot—if you can call it that—revolves around the Jellicle Ball, where a tribe of felines votes to send one member to a nebulous “Heaviside Layer” for rebirth. This is dressed up as a profound meditation on redemption, but let’s be honest: the whole thing is a flimsy clothesline for character sketches with names like “Rum Tum Tugger” and “Jennanydots.”
What fascinates me isn’t the show’s silliness but our collective willingness to project meaning onto it. When Grizabella sings “Memory,” we’re meant to feel catharsis for her unnamed sins. But what exactly has she done? Abandoned her kittens? Failed to groom herself properly? The ambiguity is deliberate. It’s theater as emotional slot machine: pull the lever, insert your own trauma, and voilà—art!
Why The Feline Fetish Works (And Why It Shouldn’t)
Watching actors contort into cat-like poses—arching backs, licking paws—is both mesmerizing and deeply uncomfortable. Director Drew McOnie leans into this dissonance, crafting a world where primal instincts (territorial posturing, seductive preening) clash with human artifice. The result? A show that feels like a fever dream of Freudian symbolism.
Here’s what audiences rarely acknowledge: the real star of Cats is projection. We see what we want—nostalgia for Eliot’s 1930s London, admiration for athletic choreography, or sheer camp value. The original 1981 production weaponized this ambiguity, running for 21 years by letting each generation reinterpret it. This revival, though slick, lacks the boldness of recent New York reimaginings that leaned into drag-ball culture. Instead, it plays it safe—a missed opportunity to explore the queer subtext lurking in all those sequined bodysuits.
The Unspoken Cultural Contract Of Musical Theater
Cats exists because we’ve agreed to tolerate ridiculous premises if the execution is dazzling enough. Consider the set: a single giant ‘C’ and some fog machines. The magic isn’t in the design but in the performers’ ability to make us believe in a world where cats debate their social hierarchy like Victorian aristocrats.
This speaks to a broader truth about musical theater: the genre thrives on absurdity. Les Mis expects us to believe people sing while dying in sewers; Phantom requires we accept a man in a mask composing operas in a subterranean lair. Cats just takes this logic to its extreme. The difference? It’s the only musical where the audience becomes part of the gag—leaning forward, squinting at the stage, silently asking: Are they really doing this?
Final Thoughts: The Purr-fect Paradox
I left Regent’s Park wondering: Will Cats ever die? The 2019 film adaptation tried (and spectacularly failed) to kill it with photorealistic CGI. Yet the stage version persists, like a theatrical cockroach surviving cultural shifts. Why? Because it understands a dirty secret—we love watching humans debase themselves artistically, as long as they do it with conviction.
In the end, Cats is less about felines and more about our hunger for communal delusion. It’s a show that dares us to take ourselves too seriously. And maybe that’s the point. As Old Deuteronomy might say (if he weren’t busy licking his elbow): Life’s a bit silly, so why not dance through it in a fur-covered leotard?
