It begins, as the finest operas do, with an unexplained grievance. At 3:07 a.m. the soprano, a grey tabby of rare lung capacity, takes her position at the foot of the stairs and delivers an aria in a language she appears to have invented for the occasion. There is no libretto. There is only the corridor, the dark, and the mounting sense that someone is meant to be doing something.
Act two, a gallop, was somewhat overlong. The ensemble knocked over a lamp, which I thought a bold directorial choice, though the lamp did not. I rise to applaud, in spirit, from under the duvet. Four paws, and a note for the management: the human in the bed was not consulted, and did not enjoy it, and that is the point.
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