Let's give it a shot.
I. What Is It?
This is a musical about horny cats introducing themselves in song. It is 110 minutes of cats trying to fuck and singing songs about what kind of cats they are.II. Everything Makes Sense When Nothing Makes Sense
This movie is aggressively about nothing. It tries so hard not to make sense that it practically dares you to abandon your suspension of disbelief.
Why don't these cats have genitals or buttholes? Why do some cats have tits that giggle and gyrate and others don't? Why do they all have HUMAN HANDS? Why are some of them wearing fur coats (presumable made of CAT hair) and others just sort of naked? How can a movie that cost 90 million dollars have no discernible sense of scale? Where are all the humans, and why does London look like a bombed-out post-apocalyptic hellscape? Why don't we see the dog (there is a dog (we DO see cockraoches and rats, though (and yes, those are just humans in CG'd jumpsuits, too (the lady cockroaches even have boobs))))? WHAT THE FUCK IS A JELLICLE CAT (they say the word "jellicle so many times that it starts to feel like a nonsense word (which it is (but, like a deeper kind of insulting nonsense, ya know?)))? There are no answers to any of these questions. Just the leering, overly CG'ed faces of actors who are either dead inside or completely, unabashedly, illicitly committed to this movie.
The film feels at once both incredibly expensive and impossibly cheap. There are A-list actors and pop culture celebrities everywhere; EVERYTHING is CG'ed in one form or another; it wants to be the kind of bombastic holiday movie that rakes in the cash. But the actors are either speak-singing, or hollowly pantomiming real energy; the CG makes everything feel like a surrealistic horror show.
And then there are the quiet moments immediately after every musical number where all the cats just breathe... heavily. And writhe. Like an orgy might break out. Like they are painfully horny for each other. Like they have miracles in their loins that long to be fucked into being. But then they all remember that this is a PG movie, and they hurriedly rush into the next musical number.
And then Jennifer Hudson yell-cries a song at you in what is clearly supposed to be an Oscar reel moment. And it is painful. Painful because you know, deep in your soul that she IS a good singer, despite what you are watching. Painful because keeping in your laughter physically hurts your belly. Painful because her face keeps... shifting... unnaturally... sliding around the plane of her head like an over-jellied PB&J.
And then Dame Judy Dench is staring straight down the barrel, through the lens, out the projector and into your soul. While she excoriates you for not calling a cat by their proper name. Or some bullshit, I wasn't really paying attention (I was crouched backward in panic, while the 15-foot visage of Judy Dench judged my soul and found me wanting (sober as a judge, I was, mind you)). And in this moment, in the final moment of the film, she sifts through the innards of your mind, pushing aside the broken detritus of your shattered psyche. While her cat friends stare, adoringly, idiotically, at her, willing the Academy to give them an Oscar already, goddammit (acting, ACTING).
Watching this movie is like watching a car hurtling towards a brick wall: instead of pressing the break, the driver has stamped their foot on the gas pedal in the desperate belief that if they just go fast enough they can sail over that wall. But they don't. They just hit the wall, and no one was wearing seatbelts, and they all die with hideously CG'ed smiles on their faces, to some shitty synth music.
Either way. He deserves an Oscar for turning a big fat steaming load of horse shit into something resembling a character.
- There is a perverse spectacle to be had watching something fail this hard. Are you a sadist? Do you take joy in the humiliation and debasement of other human beings? This movie may be for you.Why don't these cats have genitals or buttholes? Why do some cats have tits that giggle and gyrate and others don't? Why do they all have HUMAN HANDS? Why are some of them wearing fur coats (presumable made of CAT hair) and others just sort of naked? How can a movie that cost 90 million dollars have no discernible sense of scale? Where are all the humans, and why does London look like a bombed-out post-apocalyptic hellscape? Why don't we see the dog (there is a dog (we DO see cockraoches and rats, though (and yes, those are just humans in CG'd jumpsuits, too (the lady cockroaches even have boobs))))? WHAT THE FUCK IS A JELLICLE CAT (they say the word "jellicle so many times that it starts to feel like a nonsense word (which it is (but, like a deeper kind of insulting nonsense, ya know?)))? There are no answers to any of these questions. Just the leering, overly CG'ed faces of actors who are either dead inside or completely, unabashedly, illicitly committed to this movie.
The film feels at once both incredibly expensive and impossibly cheap. There are A-list actors and pop culture celebrities everywhere; EVERYTHING is CG'ed in one form or another; it wants to be the kind of bombastic holiday movie that rakes in the cash. But the actors are either speak-singing, or hollowly pantomiming real energy; the CG makes everything feel like a surrealistic horror show.
And then there are the quiet moments immediately after every musical number where all the cats just breathe... heavily. And writhe. Like an orgy might break out. Like they are painfully horny for each other. Like they have miracles in their loins that long to be fucked into being. But then they all remember that this is a PG movie, and they hurriedly rush into the next musical number.
And then Jennifer Hudson yell-cries a song at you in what is clearly supposed to be an Oscar reel moment. And it is painful. Painful because you know, deep in your soul that she IS a good singer, despite what you are watching. Painful because keeping in your laughter physically hurts your belly. Painful because her face keeps... shifting... unnaturally... sliding around the plane of her head like an over-jellied PB&J.
And then Dame Judy Dench is staring straight down the barrel, through the lens, out the projector and into your soul. While she excoriates you for not calling a cat by their proper name. Or some bullshit, I wasn't really paying attention (I was crouched backward in panic, while the 15-foot visage of Judy Dench judged my soul and found me wanting (sober as a judge, I was, mind you)). And in this moment, in the final moment of the film, she sifts through the innards of your mind, pushing aside the broken detritus of your shattered psyche. While her cat friends stare, adoringly, idiotically, at her, willing the Academy to give them an Oscar already, goddammit (acting, ACTING).
Watching this movie is like watching a car hurtling towards a brick wall: instead of pressing the break, the driver has stamped their foot on the gas pedal in the desperate belief that if they just go fast enough they can sail over that wall. But they don't. They just hit the wall, and no one was wearing seatbelts, and they all die with hideously CG'ed smiles on their faces, to some shitty synth music.
III. Tom Hooper Sucks at This
Tom Hooper isn't a good director of musicals. He may not even qualify as a director of films.
He shoots this movie either in close up or far far away shot. One angle immediately nullifies the choreography by keeping the camera painstakingly rooted to the actors faces, and the other angle shows off poorly CG'd city scapes that would look at home on a prestige PS2 game from the early 2000s.
Every artistic choice he made rings hollow: the film is awash in neon colors that make the film feel garish instead of lively; the camera never knows when to stay still, pan smoothly, or jitter like an over-caffeinated teenager; the music all feels fake, as if it were recorded on a MacBook in Garage Band; some actors are gamely actorbating the shit out of this material, while others are clearly only there for a paycheck.
At 110 minutes, this movie feels like an eternity. A freewheeling phantasmagoria of existential dread. There's always a new cat. With a new musical number. That doesn't actually say anything about them as a character. In fact, there are no characters. There is no plot. There are only cats. So many fucking cats. Going to the Jellicle Ball. Jellicle? Jellicle. JELLICLE. The Jellicle Ball. Ya know, the Jellicle Ball.
If I could punch one person in the nards, I think it would be Tom Hooper.
In his jellicle nards.
Fuck you, Tom Hooper.
He shoots this movie either in close up or far far away shot. One angle immediately nullifies the choreography by keeping the camera painstakingly rooted to the actors faces, and the other angle shows off poorly CG'd city scapes that would look at home on a prestige PS2 game from the early 2000s.
Every artistic choice he made rings hollow: the film is awash in neon colors that make the film feel garish instead of lively; the camera never knows when to stay still, pan smoothly, or jitter like an over-caffeinated teenager; the music all feels fake, as if it were recorded on a MacBook in Garage Band; some actors are gamely actorbating the shit out of this material, while others are clearly only there for a paycheck.
At 110 minutes, this movie feels like an eternity. A freewheeling phantasmagoria of existential dread. There's always a new cat. With a new musical number. That doesn't actually say anything about them as a character. In fact, there are no characters. There is no plot. There are only cats. So many fucking cats. Going to the Jellicle Ball. Jellicle? Jellicle. JELLICLE. The Jellicle Ball. Ya know, the Jellicle Ball.
If I could punch one person in the nards, I think it would be Tom Hooper.
In his jellicle nards.
Fuck you, Tom Hooper.
IV. Give Ian McKellan an Oscar For This, You Cowards
When Ian McKellan saunters onto stage (quite literally in a decrepit old theater), the movie, for a brief, fleeting minute or two, was affecting and compelling. I'm not sure if it was because McKellan looks legitimately like an old man going insane, or because he is just THAT FUCKING GOOD.Either way. He deserves an Oscar for turning a big fat steaming load of horse shit into something resembling a character.
V. Emblematic of the Difference Between Film and Stage
Now that I'm done shitting all over this movie. Let me get real.
This movie illustrates, perfectly, the difference between stage plays and feature films. A stage play is a feat of human skill, made thrilling by the fact that you are watching it live. You know that there is only so much make up and so much costuming and so much money: a stage play requires the audience to invest in it to work. Plays live and die on an audience's ability to suspend their disbelief. You know those people aren't cats: but they are wearing some fur liner and a shit load of Halloween grease paint, and so you forgive it, and you buy in. You know this is a team of lovable high school actors, or top-shelf singers and dancers, or Broadway legends, or local theater do-gooders, and you ENJOY YOURSELF.
A movie is a different beast entirely. It is no less work, don't get me wrong. We aren't here to have THAT discussion. The imperfections of a feature film are harder to forgive for an audience. You KNOW that there are multiple takes of every scene in the film, and that the one you are seeing onscreen is (supposed to be) "the best one;" millions of dollars have been spent to make this "look good," using the latest cutting edge technological advances of filmmaking; There are famous, professional, faces in every frame; the film has been edited, and screen-tested, and picked over, meticulously, by studio-heads and producers and test-audiences; the end credits enumerate the small army of technical professionals and artists that brought this vision to life.
So when a film fails, on the level that Cats fails, one has to wonder WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?
At a stage play, the actors can see you leave. Which keeps a lot of people in their seats. A movie demands no such etiquette. A stage play can be sheer spectacle because it is happening right in front of you. A movie faces a different degree of scrutiny because it has spent months in post-production, ironing out flaws and smoothing over bits and bobs. You can DO things on film that you simply can't on stage. So intentionally hamstringing your own creative vision by trying to make a movie look like a stage play is a fool's errand. There is no good reason to shoot this movie this way. And yet, it was.
Tom Hooper's movie is a shallow idiotic wax simulacra of the original stage production. There's no magic. The movie feels like it was shat out of some kind of big-budget Hollywood algorithm. A hideous Frankenstein's monster of weaponized nostalgia, pop-cultural spectacle and inoffensive family friendly bullshit. The original may have been sexy and bold and confounding. This movie is neutered and vapid.
Why was the stage musical made? Andrew Lloyd Webber read some TS Eliot book, presumably dropped some acid, and wrote a batshit-insane musical about singing cats. And something about it spoke to people and it became a phenomenon.
Why was THIS movie made? It was made to make you think about that play, and to force you to shell out your hard earned money, dragging along your friends and family. It says nothing new. It shows nothing new. It barely even manages to ape its forebear. It was made to make money.
Which it didn't (it will reportedly lose 70 million dollars). And good fucking riddance.
This movie illustrates, perfectly, the difference between stage plays and feature films. A stage play is a feat of human skill, made thrilling by the fact that you are watching it live. You know that there is only so much make up and so much costuming and so much money: a stage play requires the audience to invest in it to work. Plays live and die on an audience's ability to suspend their disbelief. You know those people aren't cats: but they are wearing some fur liner and a shit load of Halloween grease paint, and so you forgive it, and you buy in. You know this is a team of lovable high school actors, or top-shelf singers and dancers, or Broadway legends, or local theater do-gooders, and you ENJOY YOURSELF.
A movie is a different beast entirely. It is no less work, don't get me wrong. We aren't here to have THAT discussion. The imperfections of a feature film are harder to forgive for an audience. You KNOW that there are multiple takes of every scene in the film, and that the one you are seeing onscreen is (supposed to be) "the best one;" millions of dollars have been spent to make this "look good," using the latest cutting edge technological advances of filmmaking; There are famous, professional, faces in every frame; the film has been edited, and screen-tested, and picked over, meticulously, by studio-heads and producers and test-audiences; the end credits enumerate the small army of technical professionals and artists that brought this vision to life.
So when a film fails, on the level that Cats fails, one has to wonder WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?
At a stage play, the actors can see you leave. Which keeps a lot of people in their seats. A movie demands no such etiquette. A stage play can be sheer spectacle because it is happening right in front of you. A movie faces a different degree of scrutiny because it has spent months in post-production, ironing out flaws and smoothing over bits and bobs. You can DO things on film that you simply can't on stage. So intentionally hamstringing your own creative vision by trying to make a movie look like a stage play is a fool's errand. There is no good reason to shoot this movie this way. And yet, it was.
Tom Hooper's movie is a shallow idiotic wax simulacra of the original stage production. There's no magic. The movie feels like it was shat out of some kind of big-budget Hollywood algorithm. A hideous Frankenstein's monster of weaponized nostalgia, pop-cultural spectacle and inoffensive family friendly bullshit. The original may have been sexy and bold and confounding. This movie is neutered and vapid.
Why was the stage musical made? Andrew Lloyd Webber read some TS Eliot book, presumably dropped some acid, and wrote a batshit-insane musical about singing cats. And something about it spoke to people and it became a phenomenon.
Why was THIS movie made? It was made to make you think about that play, and to force you to shell out your hard earned money, dragging along your friends and family. It says nothing new. It shows nothing new. It barely even manages to ape its forebear. It was made to make money.
Which it didn't (it will reportedly lose 70 million dollars). And good fucking riddance.
Why You Should See It
Why You Shouldn't See It
In Conclusion
The best thing you could do, is to wait for this movie to stream somewhere, or just illegally download it, and watch it with a gang of friends.
Or don't watch it at all.
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