I have never been a great fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber and, having finally caught CATS at Istana Budaya, am still largely indifferent to the man’s work, despite his enormous worldwide commercial success (or perhaps it’s the snob in me that turns his nose up at cultural products churned out by heavy-duty hype and the corporate entertainment machine).

But I’ll grant that the musical sophistication Lloyd Webber - pardon me, The Lord Lloyd Webber - attained with this 1981 costumed extravaganza was, for me, a bit of an ear-opener. The overture itself was extremely adventurous and engaging, while the orchestrations in many places came close to sheer genius.

If anyone truly deserved a standing ovation, it was the invisible orchestra under the musical direction of Stefan Lombard, with Fanie Fouche on keyboard, Bruce Muirhead on bass guitar, and Jarrod Bayliss on percussion. I’d sit through the whole thing from start to finish just to savour the excellent dynamics they lent to the complex score.

Unfortunately, on the gala opening night, the singing did not satisfy as much as the musical accompaniment did – either because the concealed radio mikes weren’t sufficiently amplified, or perhaps the singers for the most part lacked that elusive substance called “star quality.” This isn’t to say the South African cast and crew weren’t entirely “professional” (even if a few of them happen to be recent initiates into showbiz as an industry): indeed they all did a great job, but at RM250 a hit, glitzy theatregoers expect that extra something.

In any case, I had difficulty catching the lyrics (mostly gleaned from a collection of feline doggerel penned by T.S. Eliot and published in 1939 as Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats). Without a copy of the libretto handy, I had to take a wild guess at the allegorical intent of the work, which seems to have its roots in Christian mysticism, what with its allusion to resurrection and rebirth in the “Heaviside Layer,” following upon ascension thereto by means of vertical takeoff devices resembling latter-day lightships or biblical chariots of fire.

It’s fairly revealing that the spiritual head of the Jellicle Cat Cult is named Old Deuteronomy and serves as some species of messianic figure (never mind if his costume made him look like a bleached wookie, Marcus Desando’s deep baritone was convincing enough). Could it be that – just as the hit musical Nunsense was probably sponsored by the Roman Catholic Church to lure wayward sheep back to the fold – CATS was really a covert arts project of the Church of England?

Stands to reason: Eliot was an Anglican convert (with a memorial all to himself in Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey) and The Lord Lloyd Webber is undoubtedly a pillar of English high society (perhaps even on first-name terms with the Archbishop of Canterbury) whose prolific efforts in musical theatre earned him a knighthood, and then a peership - hence the oh-so-pompous title, bringing to mind the equally illustrious Toad of Toad Hall (speaking of whom, I wonder if anyone has ever staged Kenneth Grahame’s classic, Wind in the Willows, as a musical; now THAT would be something to relish, and I’d be tempted to audition for the role of Rat, of course).

Apart from the lacklustre singing, the choreography reconstructed by Jo-Anne Robinson from Gillian Lynne’s original West End version was a wee bit pedestrian. The dancing was superb, but the moves seemed more balletic, occasionally burlesque, than feline. A theatre friend who has twice seen the London production confirmed my suspicion that the choreography this time around didn’t quite match the original.

The fact that the West End production of CATS was directed by the phenomenal Trevor Nunn would have added an indefinable magic to the original staging, which also benefited from the creative input of production designer extraordinaire, John Napier, whose imaginative costume and set designs were more or less adhered to, but with a few inevitable compromises tailored for a touring ensemble.

IMG’s first full-scale musical spectacular at Istana Budaya was Fame – and I thoroughly enjoyed that. Fame boasted an Australian cast and I still recall the electrifying energy they brought to the stage. It would appear that South African stagecraft, though a serious contender, has still some way to travel before it can describe itself as “world class.” This isn’t a criticism, merely an observation. Not too long ago, they were still talking about “cultural cringe” Down Under, but not any more. It seems risky to jump to hasty conclusions on the basis of a single production, but then again, Fame was by far a more straightforward and less ambitious production.

The slower-paced, more mystical ambience of CATS – and the intricacy of its lyrical and musical content – places it in the category of a contemporary operatic work. And as any opera buff can testify, it’s the music, singing, and movement that counts, not the acting or storyline. Whilst the elaborate costumes and makeup were a feast for the eyes (though some of it didn’t look that catlike to me), they also had the unfortunate effect of obscuring the performers’ faces, so that it was difficult to relate to them either as felines or humans. In short, I didn’t really connect with the proceedings on stage – even when members of the cast took to sidling along the aisles, purring and demanding to be stroked.

Indeed, rarely have I felt so unmoved at the end of what ought to have been a spectacularly entertaining and even uplifting aural and visual bonanza. True, the gala night audience applauded dutifully at all the right moments, but none of it seemed particularly enthusiastic or spontaneous. Even the standing ovation seemed somehow obligatory on account of the bigwigs involved in bringing CATS to KL. The panting, sweating performers appeared to be taken by surprise by this gesture and drew a great deal of encouragement from it, which they fully deserved.

Perhaps the lack of real oomph at the Malaysian premiere of CATS was due to the extremely well-decked-out binder-dundat crowd - the cream of KL high society, no less - who by nature are conditioned to avoid public displays of enthusiasm and spontaneity (especially on Saturday nights). But in the interest of everyone who has invested in a ticket or two (by no means an ordinary theatre outing at these prices) I hope the production picks up in verve and vitality from hereon.