There’s something undeniably magnetic about watching a group of humans contort themselves into feline shapes, prancing around a stage with the solemnity of a religious ritual. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats has always been a strange beast—a musical that feels both ancient and shockingly modern, like a relic unearthed from a time when theater was less about storytelling and more about spectacle. Watching the latest revival at Regent’s Park, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and bewilderment. What makes this show so fascinating isn’t just its absurdity, but how it manages to cling to relevance despite being, well, deeply silly. In my opinion, Cats is the ultimate example of art that thrives on its own contradictions: it’s a highbrow homage to a dead poet, yet it’s powered by pop-rock anthems that sound like they were written by a teenager with a synthesizer. It’s a metaphor for rebirth and redemption, yet it’s populated by cats who seem more interested in posturing than philosophy. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just a musical—it’s a cultural artifact, a testament to the strange ways in which public taste can be both fickle and enduring.
The show’s premise is as simple as it is nonsensical. A group of cats gathers for an annual ball, where one will be chosen to ascend to the Heaviside Layer and be reborn. The plot is so thin it could be described as a framework for a group of dancers to perform. But here’s the thing: that framework is executed with such precision and flair that it becomes almost hypnotic. Drew McOnie’s direction leans into the absurdity, turning every movement into a display of primal energy. Watching the cast slink, arch, and leap across the stage, I was struck by how much of this performance feels like a collective therapy session for the human condition. These aren’t just cats—they’re us, stripped of our pretenses, reduced to instinct and impulse. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the choreography mirrors the way we navigate social hierarchies: the haughty Demeter, the sly Rum Tum Tugger, the tragic Grizabella—all of them are archetypes we recognize, even if we’ve never met a cat in real life. It’s a reminder that theater, at its best, doesn’t need a plot to connect with audiences. Sometimes, it just needs a shared joke, a common language of movement, and the courage to be ridiculous.
The set design, a giant oxidized ‘C’ cradling a glowing moon, is a masterstroke of minimalism. It’s a symbol, yes, but also a provocation. How do you stage a story about cats without sets? By letting the audience’s imagination fill the gaps. The lighting and smoke create an ethereal atmosphere, but it’s the performers’ bodies that truly bring the world to life. When the ensemble forms a rippling spine or a sinuous line, it’s less about storytelling and more about creating a living, breathing entity. This is where the show’s magic lies: in its ability to transform humans into something otherworldly, something feral. Yet, there’s an uncomfortable edge to this transformation. Watching the cast perform, I couldn’t help but think of George Galloway licking his paws on Big Brother—a reminder that the line between performance and absurdity is often blurred. What this really suggests is that Cats is a mirror held up to our own compulsion to perform, to curate identities, and to seek validation through spectacle. It’s a show that doesn’t just ask us to suspend disbelief; it demands we embrace the ridiculous.
The music, of course, is the heart of the show—and its greatest flaw. The score is a patchwork of pop-rock, jazz, and nursery-rhyme novelty, with the occasional reggae flourish that feels like a joke. The recurring motifs are catchy, but they’re also relentless, looping in a way that feels less like art and more like a marketing strategy. Memory, the showstopper, is a masterpiece of emotional manipulation, but even it feels like a calculated move to ensure the audience leaves humming. What many people don’t realize is that this musical’s success is built on repetition, on the idea that familiarity breeds comfort. The songs aren’t just music—they’re mantras, designed to lodge themselves in your brain like a virus. And yet, for all its predictability, there’s a certain charm to it. It’s the kind of music that makes you want to dance, even if you don’t know why. It’s the sound of a generation that grew up with Lloyd Webber’s melodies, and it’s impossible to ignore the way these songs have become part of the cultural fabric, whether you love them or not.
But let’s not pretend Cats is without its flaws. The show’s reliance on spectacle over substance is glaring. The resurrection/redemption arc is so vague it might as well be a dream. The characters are sketches, not people, and the dialogue is a series of poetic riddles that feel more like a game of charades than a narrative. And yet, this is precisely what makes Cats endure. It’s a show that doesn’t ask for depth—it asks for surrender. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best art is the kind that doesn’t try to be profound. It’s the kind that exists for the joy of it, for the thrill of watching humans become something else, if only for an evening. In my view, Cats is a paradox: a deeply silly show that somehow manages to feel profound, a relic of the past that continues to captivate because it dares to be unapologetically itself. What this really suggests is that art doesn’t need to make sense to be powerful. Sometimes, it just needs to make you feel something—even if that feeling is confusion, or laughter, or the inexplicable urge to join a group of humans in a dance that’s as nonsensical as it is beautiful.
