Connoisseurs of strangeness, get thee down to John Hancock Hall today for the last Boston performances by the Moscow Cats Theatre, because otherwise you'll have to go to New York. Have to. We went to the matinee yesterday and I still can't quite believe what I saw. And not because of the cat tricks, although those of you who go just for the cute kitties won't be disappointed. If it was just for the felines, though, the $56 ticket would seem steep. But this experience had so much more to give.
"It's like _____ on acid" is a terrible cliche in journalism these
days, lazy writing even when it's updated to reference, say, crystal
meth. But honestly, the only way to get close to this experience would be to drop some LSD, lock yourself in a room with a bunch of hungry cats and a couple of mimes, then flip on a DVD jukebox with a random shuffle of "Bozo the Clown," "Teletubbies" and 1950s Soviet children's programming. It's that weird.
There are these four happy clowns, see, two men and two women, and they don't speak, although occasionally they emit a sub-verbal mutter or exhortation for applause. They live in a strange dreamworld decorated with giant children's blocks, where many cats - and one very confused little dog - run free. Also on hand are two big fuzzy green Teletubbies with trombone-like protruberances where their mouths should be. Space aliens? Some Russian children's-TV icon? Who knows.
For 80 minutes, these characters indulge in hard-to-decipher antics and intrigues that seem to involve frequent cycles of dreaming and waking. The set and props are cheesy, and the music is a combination of pulsating Russian disco and utter schmaltz. The slapstick gags are so broad and simple they seem aimed at two-year-olds. But then there's a bizarre scenario near the end in which the clown princess turns up pregnant, and the two male clowns point the finger at each other before deciding a guy in the audience is the father. At which point the princess gives birth - to the still very confused little dog.
And this is not even mentioning the four-legged stars of the show.
Herding cats? These Russians do it, with a not very subtle mix of palmed kitty treats and much-practiced hand signals. There are a couple of show-stoppers - a cat that does handstands on lead clown Yuri's outstretched palm, and another one that scoots up poles and jumps down to Yuri's shoulder from great heights. Just the fact that the cats mostly run in and out on cue is impressive to anyone who knows the species. They cooperate with that distracted ennui that is their trademark. One of them sat atop a prop house and calmly washed his face for 10 minutes in mid-show, despite the chaos around him.
Even the PETA member with me was unfazed by most of it, and in one case, when a "cat" is treated badly, it is actually a doll. But I'm not sure the dozens and dozens of little kids in the audience, laughing as if they'd been huffing ether, were conscious of how carefully the animals were actually treated. It seems like there should have been some nice English-speaking clown to come out at the beginning and end of the show to tell the kids, DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME.
And the gag about the little dog munching on the broken lightbulb just wasn't funny at all.
Seeing it all in the simple, classic deco confines of the Hancock made it that much weirder. And the business end was deeply strange too. While literally hundreds of people were lined up at the Hancock's will-call window, traffic at the walk-up sales window was very slow - in part because there were two older Russian people sitting at a folding table, also selling tickets. And then there was the third ticket that just showed up in our envelope.
I even got an on-street parking space practically across the street. The meter was out of order, but - after nearly three hours on a Saturday afternoon, in the middle of the Back Bay - I didn't get a parking ticket. I'm tellin' ya, it was one strange afternoon.