Congratulations, Hollywood. You actually did it.
I'd read some of the reviews and I just couldn't believe it. "The scariest thing you'll ever see," they said. "A new masterpiece in modern horror," some proclaimed. I didn't believe the hype. There was no way it could be more terrifying than the classics. But I've seen it for myself, and they're not lying. Move over, The Exorcist. Make way, The Shining. Step aside, Mr. Krueger. Hollywood has just released the most terrifying film you'll ever see.
I speak, of course, about the brief trailer for the upcoming movie adaptation of "Cats."
Last week, Universal Pictures released this nightmare fuel unto the world with little warning. Mankind was clearly not prepared.
The "Cats" trailer is truly two of the most off-putting minutes you'll experience all year. If a brief montage can elicit this kind of repulsion, the full movie (coming this Christmas) might be the end of us all. You've officially been warned.
It isn't just that you're watching a star-studded cast prance about in cat costumes. That would be bad enough. But the makers of "Cats" then took the footage and added CGI effects to make everyone look like beastly half-naked singing-n-dancing cat aliens from some untapped plane of Hell. If there really IS a secret UFO stronghold under the mountains of Area 51, we now have a pretty good idea what its residents resemble. Finally, the world has answers to questions that have plagued mankind, such as "What would Dame Judi Dench look like with fur and a tail?" (The answer? REALLY creepy.)
It doesn't help that this trailer is for the movie version of my least favorite musical of all time. Even without CGI and fraudulent feline fur, "Cats" creeped me out as a kid and continues to creep me out today.
For one, it has NO plot. Zero narrative. Zilch. Here's what happens in "Cats": cats sing about being cats. The end. Okay, maybe there's a TINY plot. "Cats" is the story of a tribe called the Jellicles, who meet once a year to elect one cat to travel to the Heaviside Layer, where they'll be reborn into a new life. Essentially, the entire musical is nothing but cat-people singing about why they should die -- and frankly, if I was trapped in this plot, I'd be pleading to die, too. In the end, I presume one of them does. I don't know for certain -- I've never made it that far without fleeing for my life and sanity.
I don't know a THING about how "Cats" came to be, but I have a guess. Once upon a time, Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote an amazing song called "Memory." It's a boss tune. A real tear-jerking show-stopper fit for a diva. Trouble was, he had no musical to put it in. Just then he looked down, saw his cat sleeping, and thought to himself, "That'll do." "Cats" is a two-hour excuse to hear "Memory" and little else.
At some point, he must have come up with the word "jellicle" and thought it was cool. But nothing rhymes with "jellicle," so most of the songs rhyme "jellicle" with "jellicle." If "Cats" had a drinking game where you had to swig every time someone said "jellicle," the entire audience would be dead of alcohol poisoning fifteen minutes in.
Other songs just abandon rhyme altogether, because why bother? You're already in the theater, you've already paid the money, and you're only there to hear "Memory" in the first place.
Mr. Webber, I know cats. Cats are friends of mine. This is not cats.
Either my cats are really weird (admittedly a possibility) or Andy Webber got it all wrong. Despite my constant encouragement and deepest desires, my cats have never spontaneously broken out in song and dance. At best, I might get a meow, and even that's pushing it.
Maybe its up to me to fix what's broken in "Cats." I might not be able to carry a tune or play a lick of music, but tonight, my cats and I put our heads together and came up with the basics of a musical I like to call "Actual Cats."
Act I, Scene I. The curtain opens to reveal two housecats sleeping on a couch. Upon the sound of a housekey turning a lock, they yawn, stretch, and immediately go into the opening number, "Hungry Songs for Hungry Cats."
This is followed quickly by other memorable sing-along numbers, such as:
"Back To Sleep"
"Guess Where I Peed (It's Not the Litterbox)"
"I Know You Have Food, Where Is The Food?"
"I'm Not Staring, I'm Judging You"
Act II is a little more emotional, with songs like "Pet Me Pet Me DON'T PET ME THERE" and the dramatic tale based on a true story, "I Don't Know This Girl You Invited Over (So I Pooped In Her Shoe.)"
Then, once the audience is deeply invested, hit 'em with the show-stopper. "Hunnnngry! It's so eeeasy to feeeed me / When you feeeed me, I'll understand what happiness issss, tilll the food bowl... FILLS AGAIN!" The audience weeps. Someone hacks up a hairball. Curtain.
Easy peasy. No need for a Heaviside layer or cat reaping ceremony. No one had to hear the word "jellicle." No one had to see a furry Dame Judi Dench. Dear American Theater League, you may send my Tony to the usual address.
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