Just last week, my good friend Scott asked me to watch his cat
while he was out of town on vacation. Unfortunately, as soon as
Scott left town, I realized he had given me the wrong keys. After
a day or so of panic, I located a window in his house that was
open a wee crack and spent the next seven days stuffing cat food
through a two inch gap to the immense gratitude of a yowling calico.
As a result, I feel I share a certain kinship with the heroine
of the new French flick When the Cat's Away.
Chloé (Garance Clavel) is an overworked young lass from
Paris who takes a long-awaited and long-needed escape from the
confines of the City of Lights. Unable to find a friend to watch
her beloved feline Gris-Gris (convincingly portrayed by Clavel's
very own cat Arapimou), she entrusts the cat to the care of an
old lady by the name of Madame Renée. When she returns
from her vacation, Chloé discovers that Gris-Gris has gone
on the lam thanks to an open kitchen window. Armed with handful
of fliers, Chloé ventures out into her funky neighborhood.
Soon every musician, artist and little old lady in the immediate
vicinity is embroiled in the search for the lost cat. Almost against
her will, the unhappy introvert Chloé is forced to face
the colorful, quirky world outside her door.
There is the horde of foreign immigrants who cluster in the neighborhood
bars. There's the collective of grungy musicians who haunt the
coffee shops. There's the network of little old ladies slowly
being evicted from their apartments for the growing tide of trendy
boutiques and hip nightclubs. All of these people are new to Chloé,
who up until now has been content to perform her crappy job during
the day and slink home to be pestered by her annoying gay roommate
at night. Chloé isn't just looking for her cat, she's searching
for love, life and a sense of self. Anyone who's ever lived in
a college ghetto, dealt with lousy roommates and hovered around
the trendy part of town--be it Greenwich, New York, or Nob Hill,
Albuquerque--is sure to sympathize. The supporting roles are all
thesped by non-actors whose scenes were shot in their own apartments,
giving the entire film a natural, unrehearsed feeling.
When the Cat's Away is a wry, freewheeling parable about
modern urban life. Issues of gentrification, multiculturalism
and good old-fashioned urban loneliness slip in and out, and the
film teases with the idea of becoming something more symbolic.
In the end, though, it settles for a simple premise. Cities, more
and more, are squeezing out their old world charm, their neighborly
atmosphere. Isolation of individuals is becoming the trend of
the day. It's quaint to think that something as simple as a lost
cat could break us out of our protective shell.
Unfortunately, I didn't fall in love, meet anyone interesting
or tour the funkier sections of Paris on my adventure in feline
anxiety. Scott came back, said "Thanks," and that was
that. Life rarely imitates art. In the case of When the Cat's
Away, though, art can sometimes imitate life.