Danny the cat.

I came to Cats Don't Dance with few expectations, thinking only "a flick with six Randy Newman songs in it can't be all bad." Things got off on the wrong foot with a lifeless, laughless Foghorn Leghorn short, Pullet Surprise (directed by Darrel Van Citters for Chuck Jones Productions) tacked to the beginning, but took a more promising turn as the feature proper got underway. Any movie that borrows successfully from Sunset Boulevard and Singin' in the Rain in the first reel is well on its way to winning this old film buff's heart.

Cats Don't Dance instantly outclasses Warner Bros.' other recent animated release, that merchandising-driven labor-of-lucre, Space Jam. Cats is long on charm--a quality Jam lacked completely. A strong score by Steve Goldstein, with additional tunes and the usual fine lyrics from Hollywood veteran Newman make for a healthy antidote to Jam's cringe-worthy soundtrack. (This reviewer's ears are still ringing, and he continues to ponder a Workman's Comp claim against the makers of that fiasco for cruel and unusual punishment.)

Another winning aspect of this animated musical: The plot being about a song-and-dance cat gives its makers the opportunity to create a more dance-driven show than The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast or Hunchback. With elegant choreography supervised by the legendary Gene Kelly, it manages to out-dance recent Disney offerings. Cats draws from both WB animated shorts and MGM movie musicals in their late forties-to-mid-fifties heyday. The look Art Director Brian McEntee has created is refreshingly non-Disney. The stylish Art Deco backgrounds draw on MGM traditions, both animated and live-action. Villainess Darla Dimple looks a bit like Elmer Fudd in drag; while Sawyer resembles the sort of the sophisticated feline Pepé Le Pew might pursue. (The film's best "acting" is by this female catsubtly and expressively animated by Lenny Graves.)

Child star Darla Dimple mocks the cats' dreams to make it big in showbusiness.

The underlying premise for this musical tale is similar to that found in Who Framed Roger Rabbit, of some Hollywood underclass--in that case Toons, in this case, animal performers. Was Toontown Coontown, the Ink & Paint Club the Cotton Club? Is any particular caste system being suggested here? More like a casting, or type-casting system. The grievance, rather than "no justice for Toons" is "no decent parts for animals"--talent goes unrecognized, careers are stalled. All because of rules like the one that says that cat-actors can only meow onscreen, they're never allowed to sing or dance.

The plight of these bit players, who can't get ahead because of studio discrimination, isn't meant to be thought about too hard. It's mainly a pretext for creating an old-fashioned boy-meets-girl, let's put on a show musical. A small-town menagerie bids goodbye to The Boy (Danny the Cat) as he boards a bus for Hollywood. In a flash, he's in the heart of town, dancing across the famous hand prints in front of Graumann's Chinese Theater. His big opening, you-can-do-anything number climaxes with some fancy footwork, inadvertently knocks The Girl (Sawyer the Cat) headfirst into a public fountain.

They're both headed for the same place--Farley Wink's talent agency, where they inevitably meet (Girl Hates Boy) and get cast together in the new Darla Dimple musical, Little Ark Angel. At rehearsal, Danny courts disaster by going beyond his only scripted line ("Meow," of course) and upstaging the short-tempered child star. "Max!," screams America's sweetheart at the top of her lungs, and her bodyguard (a big-knuckled, four story tall version of the Eric Von Stroheim character in Sunset Boulevard) instantly appears. Squeezing Danny's slender torso in his giant fist, the monster asks, "What does the Kitty-Kat say?"--"Meow," yelps Danny meekly.