The tails are lurking.
The tails are lurking. Universal Pictures

Cats is not for everyone, but it is definitely for me.

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Some people will never be able to enjoy a sung-through musical. As my partner said after last night's press screening of Cats, "I thought there would be more dialogue." Amateur! And yet, a fully understandable thought. Know going in that there is very little dialogue. Think of it as an opera that purrs.

Many will also find humanoid cats with "digital fur technology" to be too freaky or sexy. I think this opinion is very suburban, even a tad snowflake-y, but also completely within reason. Andrew Lloyd Webber himself said Cats was a “suicidally stupid musical.” No one is under any illusion that this is Dunkirk.

So, before you go and see Cats, which you should and will, I want you to take a look in the mirror and ask yourself: "What do I want from Cats?" Because I bet you will get exactly what you want. Or, perhaps, deserve.

Now let's talk about those horny tails.

This Tom Hooper-directed blockbuster movie version of the world's original megamusical, Cats, is surprisingly faithful to its source material. There continues to be a lot of pearl-clutching from critics and trailer-viewers around these kitties' bodies, and their lack of genitalia and buttholes, but I think these animated fur-bodies are respectfully similar to the stage musical's fur-bodies—except for one distinct, erect difference: their tails.

In the staged version of the musical, which I recently saw while it was touring through Seattle, the performers have tiny flaccid fabric tails. They wag, landing roughly at the knee, as the dancers scurry and flitter and leap, but they are unobtrusive. I did not think one thing about the cats' tails in Cats when I saw it live. I was more preoccupied with the mass extravaganza that is a stage full of grown-ass adults meowing in kitty-colored spandex. But in the movie version, the tails have a pulse of their own.

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Jason Derulo did not need to worry about his penis being erased in Cats' post-production, because his tail leaves little to the imagination. In fact, all of the kitties' tails seem to throb and shudder and spasm in proportion to their desire. These animated tails are probably the movie's greatest invention added to the canon of Cats. It would be a lie to say that the movie turned me into a furry, but it would also be a lie to say that I did not lust after Mr. Mistoffelees, the magical magician cat. And I hate magicians.

We can't deny it: These tails will be a sexual root for a good subsection of kids watching Cats today. That, I guess, is the arrow of progress, which does not always point straight or forward. For too long furries have been treated like Grizabella the Glamour Cat, cast out onto the piss-stained street. This holiday season, their paws—and tails—will rise.

Cats opens in local theaters tomorrow.

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