or Why I Now Want to Be Reincarnated as a Jellicle
Review of Cats the Musical or, Why I Now Want to Be Reincarnated as a Jellicle
Right. So. I went to see Cats the musical in Sydney, and within minutes I was ready to buy a tail, sign up for night school at the Jellicle Academy, and start singing my feelings in full leotard.
There’s something inexplicably magical about a moonlit set drenched in fairy lights, while an army of whiskered, whiskery beasts leap out of the shadows and start cavorting about like they’ve all had three espresso martinis and a catnip chaser. You know something’s good when halfway through you start wondering if this was, in fact, the secret origin story of Furries. (And honestly, I get it. I do. Who wouldn’t want to be a Jellicle Cat going to a Jellicle Ball?)
Now, I know. The internet cynics have said, “Cats has nine lives and this is its last,” but to that I say: Nonsense! Sure, it doesn’t have a plot. But neither does life most of the time, and we still show up for that.
Cats is based on T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
For those unfamiliar with the lore (and let’s be honest, even people in the show seem confused about the storyline): Cats is based on T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, which is basically a poetry collection about personality-disordered moggies. Andrew Lloyd Webber, being the gloriously bonkers genius he is, looked at it and thought, “Yes. This needs to be a two-hour operatic furball with no talking.” And thus, a legend was born.
Plot? Pfft. What plot? It’s basically feline Survivor, but with jazz hands and a smoke machine. All the cats turn up to the Jellicle Ball, where they perform interpretive dance and plead their cases to Old Deuteronomy, who is like Gandalf, but fluffier, so they can be chosen to ascend to the Heaviside Layer and be reborn. It’s like The Bachelor, but if everyone wore Lycra and sang about litter boxes.
The Rum Tum Tugger
Let’s talk performances. Rum Tum Tugger? Scene-stealing, hip-thrusting, feline seduction machine. If there was a Jellicle calendar, he’d be Mr. February through December. And Aimee Jones, stepping in for Gabriyel Thomas as Grizabella, absolutely slayed. When she belted out Memory, the audience went from politely curious to full-body goosebumps. You could feel hearts cracking open like pistachios.
Todd McKenney as Bustopher Jones and Asparagus
And yes, in the second half the narrative kind of gels? There’s some genuine emotional heft, especially when Todd McKenney (a national treasure, no?) ambles in as Bustopher Jones and starts throwing his theatrical weight around like a sassy Clydesdale in white spats. Alex Alvarez gives us a Mr. Mistoffelees with sparkle and pizzazz and an actual disappearing act! and Mark Vincent’s Deuteronomy has the dignified gravitas of a cat who’s seen some things and eaten a lot of tuna.
Look, the joy of Cats isn’t about a perfectly arced three-act structure. It’s about rhythm and fur, sass and spectacle, and the sheer fabulous madness of it all. It’s for the costume lovers, the musical theatre nerds, and those of us who still belt Memory into our shampoo bottles after a rough day.
The set is a whimsical wonderland of junkyard grandeur. The choreography is thrilling, full of sinewy, pouncy energy. The tails alone deserve their own standing ovation.
And if I had young children, I’d absolutely take them along, partly because it’s family-friendly fun, but mostly because it’s important to introduce them early to the life-changing magic of interpretive jazz-pawing. Culture matters.
Cats is weird, wonderful, and entirely unapologetic about its madness.
So no, I don’t care if some theatre snobs scoff at the lack of dialogue or sniff at the feline absurdity. Cats is weird, wonderful, and entirely unapologetic about its madness. And that, my dears, is its purrfection.
Five paws up. And a glittery tail flick.
