There is a wall in my house. The wall is a simple wall, eight feet tall, and fifteen feet wide, it sits in a corner in the basement. It has been painted beige, with a few coats to cover up the bumps and scratches from coats before. It's got it's idiosyncrasies, the way the light jumps off the paint, the not so even drywalling underneath. Stare at it long enough, and it begins to speak to you - or at least allow you to speak to it. Maybe there's something to the wall - or maybe it's just my romantic illusions of inspiration and contemplation that bring life to it. My point is this - staring at that blank wall for two hours is far more inspiring, interesting and enlightening than watching even just two minutes of the cinematic colonoscopy that is "Cats." A film so awful, so ridiculous and so void of substance its very existence is an affront to musicals, film and theatre. Unless you're a fan of 'so bad it's good' cinema, stay away. This is a watershed moment in bad movie history.
Review of Cats
