The final days of 'Cats': A 'Memory'

On Sept. 10, 2000, the world ended.

"How is that possible?" you may ask. "We're still here, still going to classes. Life is proceeding in the normal manner." And that may be true. But out there, somewhere not too far from idyllic Princeton, there is an existential void that has yet to be filled.

Do you recall these familiar slogans? " 'Cats.' Now and Forever at the Winter Garden Theater." " 'Cats.' Let the Memory Live Again." Well, "forever" is no more. The "memory" cannot be resurrected. On Sept. 10, 2000, "Cats" took its final bow. An era is over.

Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Cats" is the longest running musical in Broadway history. With 7,485 performances, seen by more than 10 million people — and that's just the Broadway production — "Cats" has set more records than most could have imagined. All the same, it's not what you would call acclaimed.

Though much maligned by critics and "real" theater buffs, the show received flocks of tourists and families every night for 18 years. And one night this summer, I, a New Yorker, a theater addict and a college student — a particularly atypical audience member for this show — decided to join them.

I love "Cats." It was the first big musical that I saw, and though I didn't know it at the time, walking into that huge theater decorated with oversized cereal boxes and soup cans had a life-changing effect. When I discovered that "Cats" was closing this fall, I knew that I had to revisit the scene of my introduction to the Broadway stage. So I bought myself a ticket — no one would indulge my whim and accompany me — and off to the Winter Garden I went.

One of the more noticeable attributes of the audience members on this fateful evening was that, like me, they were not your typical "Cats"-goers. There were surprisingly few small children, and even the tourists seemed outnumbered by the hometown crowd, which would generally be found at a hot ticket like "Contact" or an edgy Off-Broadway production.

I attributed this phenomenon to the same feeling of nostalgia that had resulted in my presence at the show. When the final performance of "Cats" was announced, ticket sales soared. Because of this increased demand, the production was given 11 weeks to live beyond its original June 25 closing date. Many of those who bought tickets were people who simply could not believe that the timeless "Cats" was finally reaching its expiration date.

Besides the unexpected audience composition, the theater was basically the same as I remembered from my first visit there at age eight. From my partial-view seat high up in the balcony (sure I was feeling nostalgic, but not quite nostalgic enough to shell out $80 for a ticket), I could see the oversized garbage heap — well, I could see most of the oversized garbage heap — which seemed unaffected by nearly two decades of wear. And when the show started, I was a stage-struck eight-year-old again, entranced by the music, dancing and overall spectacle.

The genius of "Cats," I realized as I watched, lies in its presentation. It's impossible to fault T. S. Eliot's brilliant poems, which serve as the lyrics to most of the show's songs, and personally, I'm also rather fond of Lloyd Webber's arguably catchy tunes. But there's no denying that what made "Cats" an enduring theatrical icon was Trevor Nunn's original direction and the fantastically extravagant production design.

Gillian Lynne's choreography also played a major part in the crowd-pleasing qualities of "Cats." I realized, with a fairly broad knowledge of musical theater history behind me, that "Cats" was actually a glorified ballet. The members of the cast, for the most part, were chosen for their fabulous dancing skills rather than their average singing voices. The most thrilling part of the show, not including the giant tire that rises to the Heaviside Layer, is the intricately choreographed "Jellicle Ball" sequence. And as an audience member, I found that there is nothing more exciting than the moments when the Cats themselves came down off the stage and danced in the aisles and even on the railings of the balcony and upstairs boxes.

At the end of the show, there was ovation after ovation, the audience making the most of one of our final chances to congratulate the more than 1,000 actors and technicians who have worked on "Cats" throughout the years. And then we all left, singing quietly to ourselves as we crossed the street to the subway station, or stood on the corner, frantically trying to hail taxis.

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There's a severe lack of singing animals on Broadway just now. The only ones that readily spring to mind are those in "The Lion King." It is possible that another cat, the Cat in the Hat to be specific, will conquer Broadway when "Seussical the Musical" opens Nov. 9. But only time will tell.

Many will say that it was fully time for "Cats" to close. And they may be right. There is no question that "Cats" had nine lives and then some. But nevertheless, there is something missing in the theater listings. Never again will we see those commercials, with the wide-eyed, face-painted children. Those yellow eyes, with dancers for pupils, will stare from the sides of buses no more. The world may go on, but theater as we know it will never be the same.