I raved about Cats when I first reviewed it in 1981. Seeing it revived by the original creative team, I still admire its energy, verve and choreographic vigour. But if, as Trevor Nunn argues, it was a revolutionary musical, I begin to feel it is high time for some form of counter-reformation.
The first thing to say about this revival is that it rethinks what you can do at the London Palladium. John Napier’s junkyard set, with its rusting cars, worn-out tyres and urban detritus, spills out from the stage to embrace the boxes and front stalls. The feline dancers also leap from the stage and prowl through the auditorium as if it were their playground. The show may not be an in-the-round experience as it was in the 1980s, but it still breaks down the barriers between stage and audience.
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s songs also give theatrical life to the individual cats in TS Eliot’s anthropomorphic poems. The star role is still the faded glamourpuss, Grizabella, who “haunted many a low resort near the grimy road of Tottenham Court” and who finally ascends to cat-heaven. She also twice gets to sing the Puccini-esque Memory and, even though Nicole Scherzinger tends to substitute lung-power for plaintiveness, she exudes the right air of solitude and had the audience cheering her high notes.
But other cats have their turn and, for me, the moment of ecstasy I look for in a musical came with Joseph Poulton’s Mr Mistoffelees who is not only “the original conjuring cat” but who gets to execute a dazzling series of classical steps that remind one of choreographer Gillian Lynne’s training with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. Antoine Murray-Straughan also makes Rum Tum Tugger the coolest of urban cats, Paul F Monaghan is impressive both as the be-spatted clubland figure of Bustopher Jones and the highly theatrical Gus, and a Scottish-accented Zizi Strallen and Charlene Ford lithely introduce us to the mysteries of Macavity.
It is all performed with great commitment, the dancing is excellent and Nunn’s direction gives a diffuse show a carnivalesque unity. But, while Cats is enjoyable in itself, I’m not convinced it led musicals in the right direction. With Grizabella’s climactic elevation on a floating ramp, once memorably spoofed by an upwardly mobile Dame Edna, it patented the idea of the musical as a form of surrogate religion destined to provide an ersatz spirituality. This was the moment when the musical turned to spectacular machinery to give us all a lift.
My other doubt is that, even if Cats was not the first through-composed score, it signalled the subordination of the dramatic book to an all-enveloping experience. The result was the growth of the concept-show and the jukebox musical. Some have been good, some bad. But I would argue that, at its best, the musical offers an unfolding narrative which is why this year I enjoyed Gypsy and Memphis infinitely more than the disco show Here Lies Love. But perhaps it’s unfair to blame Cats for the litter that it produced. Take it for what it is and it remains an invigorating dance-spectacle that banishes all thoughts of catnaps.
• Until 28 February. Box office: 0844 874 0667. Venue: London Palladium.
