Theatre in Review: Cats (Neil Simon Theatre)

	Quentin Earl Darrington. Photo: Matthew Murphy.

If you read this column even only occasionally, you're probably aware that I've been around more than a year or two. Although there's no truth to the rumor that I cheered on Bert Lahr and Ethel Merman at the opening night of Du Barry Was a Lady, I have a long, long memory. I can quote chapter and verse from musicals that never got out of Boston during the Carter Administration. And, for the price of a cocktail, I can regale you with stories of such unforgettable early '80s flops as Moose Murders and Marlowe. So why do I remember practically nothing about Cats?

I caught the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical a few months after it opened in 1982, and aside from John Napier's celebrated junkyard set and the sight of Betty Buckley glowering at the audience, I retain almost nothing of that original production. A Doll's Life, which opened two weeks earlier and ran five performances? That I can tell you about.

Enough of my seedy memories. The fact is, I left the Winter Garden Theatre in 1982 in a state of bewilderment, a feeling that came creeping back the other night at the Neil Simon. I would dearly love to understand the process by which a very slim -- and very, very British -- book of poems (T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats) was imagined as a musical theatre spectacle, loaded with production numbers and scenic effects. I think I understand how West End audiences came to embrace this monumental exercise in whimsy; how Cats managed to conquer America -- and the rest of the world, for that matter -- is another, more mystifying, question.

Still, it's worth remembering that, when it opened, Cats was viewed as evidence of a fresh voice in musical theatre; indeed, given its fantasticated staging and disregard for plot, it was treated as something of an avant-garde experiment. And in a season that offered such made-in-the-USA gobsmackers as Play Me a Country Song, A Doll's Life, Merlin, and Dance a Little Closer, the American musical seemed to be sputtering to a halt. It really wasn't until John Guare took deadly aim at Cats with Six Degrees of Separation that it became a long-running joke among theatregoers weary of blockbuster British imports.

Then again, the buzz was palpable at the Neil Simon the other night. The vast majority of those in attendance -- most of them young -- were really, really excited about seeing Cats. And they were rewarded by Trevor Nunn's production, which gives this 35-year-old show the sparkle and precision of a brand-new hit. This is a semi-revisal, with some textual cuts -- the number "Growltiger's Last Stand," one of the few bits I recall, has been excised -- and some new choreography and new lighting and sound designs. Best of all is a cast superbly equipped to mine every bit of entertainment value in this extremely peculiar material.

Andy Huntington Jones is an authoritative presence as Munkustrap, who acts as master of ceremonies, delivering the text of "The Naming of Cats" with a feel for Eliot's poetry that is missing elsewhere. Eloise Kropp, last seen tapping her heart out in Dames at Sea, brings her technical proficiency and sparkling personality to Jennyanydots, a kind of feline Ruby Keeler. Tyler Hanes invests Rum Tum Tugger with plenty of Mick Jagger swagger. As Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, Jess LeProtto and Shonica Gooden slink about with a sexy abandon that would warm Bob Fosse's heart. Christopher Gurr is honestly touching as Gus, the Theatre Cat, a palsied elder dreaming of better days, sadly concluding that "the theatre is certainly not what it once was." Ricky Ubeda nearly walks off with the entire show, leaping around with gleeful abandon as Mr. Mistoffelees. The ballerina Georgina Pazcoguin appears front and center in the group numbers as Victoria, demonstrating her skill at a variety of dance styles. Quentin Earl Darrington has the big voice needed for Old Deuteronomy, the furry éminence grise who arrives to select one among them to travel to the Heaviside Layer, where he or she is to be assigned a new life.

It is surely no spoiler at this late date to report that the winner of this heavenly lottery is Grizabella, the Glamour Cat, who also delivers the eleven o'clock number (and chartbusting hit), "Memory." Leona Lewis, the pop star who joined the cast after the attempt at getting Nicole Scherzinger to repeat her West End triumph fell through, belts the number as you would expect, but she's not really an actress; when Grizabella first enters, silent, in her ratty, matted fur, the very embodiment of rejection, she should break your heart. Lewis' Grizabella has a certain wounded dignity, but she doesn't quite have the necessary stage presence; perhaps she will improve with time.

Nunn has been staging productions of Cats for three and a half decades, but you wouldn't know it, given this production's sparkling performances and headlong pacing; the moments when the energy mysteriously slips away for a few minutes are built into the show and not his fault. Andy Blankenbuehler's choreography, based on Gillian Lynne's original -- at the intermission, opinions differed on how much was new -- transforms the furtive gestures, nervous reactions, and full-body stretches -- the sheer physicality of cats -- into an alluring dance vocabulary. My companion remarked that, on the smaller Neil Simon stage, the cast of 30 looked awfully crowded, but, to my mind, they perform as if they have all the room in the world.

Once again, Napier has created a vast junkyard, dominated by a painted moon, in which the cast frolics, surrounded by layers of discarded objects that spill out into the house, which is also festooned with Tivoli lights. If it isn't quite the spectacle it was in 1982, it's still impressive, and his costume designs are as transformative as they ever were. Natasha Katz contrasts gorgeous, ice-cold moonlight washes with boldly saturated colors, one hue layered on another to powerful effect. (Brad Peterson is credited with projetion design, but his contribution is dificult to idenitfy.) Mick Potter's sound design is one of his finest achievements, managing a transparency and clarity that brings a much-needed sense of intimacy to the staging; if T. S. Eliot is often obscured by displays of theatrical proficency, it's not because you can't hear the words.

Still, I no more grasp the overwhelming appeal of Cats today than I did thirty-four years ago. As the devoted owner of two felines, you might think I'm squarely in the show's target audience. But this largely plotless parade of musical numbers essentially goes nowhere, occasionally rising to a peak of excitement only to wander off, losing momentum until the next showstopper appears. Baron Lloyd Webber's score is an anthology of earworms; for all the popularity of "Memory," I prefer the opener, "Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats," with its wildly unpredictable syncopation, or "Magical Mr. Mistoffelees," dominated by the kind of pop hook the composer does best. Even so, it's hard to escape the feeling that a very casual piece of source material has been blown up far beyond its limits into something only intermittently charming -- and often perplexing. (I'm still scratching my head over "The Awefull Battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles," the weird Act II production number.) If you're a Cats person, you're probably going to have a great time; if you're allergic to Cats, this production is unlikely to provide the antidote. -- David Barbour