When Cat People Become 'Cat People'
Folkloric musings on monstrosity, femininity, and domestication
by T. Bloom [above: promotional image for Cat People, 1942]
Here’s an inescapable truth: as humankind learns more about the evolutionary transformations which produced our quaint species, everything we understand about ourselves becomes less concrete. We literally don’t know what we are, and this is not a predicament that scientific advancement may solve.
Many throughout history have approached this taxonomic riddle by process of elimination, determining first what we are not. The results have been laughably inadequate. Exaggerating the differences between ourselves and other creatures, we fall prey to half-formed monsters that emerge from the unconscious, highlighting all the connections to the natural world that we’ve unsuccessfully tried to ignore or suppress. Exaggerating the differences between sexes and genders as a basis for forming some kind of stable society among ourselves, we’ve created monstrous fetishes of seduction, fertility, and violence.
Everything we’ve aspired to continues to elude us; in the meantime, everything we no longer wish to be, we are.
In folklore, some humans transform into animals deliberately. Others are transformed against their will, perhaps as the result of a curse, some unavoidable ill omen, or a quirk of their heritage. In many instances the cause is known to them, in others it remains a complete mystery. Humankind’s fascination with the fluidity between human and animal shapes represents a primal awareness of the fitful evolutionary process that eventually produced us. Even our earliest ancestors understood they were in no way separate from this process, or from the world which produced them. Therein lie the most direct answers to many of life’s questions, even thousands of years later.
Our more recent discoveries related to the developing human body’s transformation in utero might have finally clinched this for us, if not for one embarrassingly human conundrum: most would simply rather not know. And the consequences for not knowing may be vast, but those are easily attributed to other things… for example, witches and monsters.
This deep-seated craving for simplicity explains why anything throughout history that hasn’t fit into the most simplistic and accessible patterns of recognition ends up catalogued as deformity, aberration, or diablerie. This is how we arrived at the fascinating catch-all that is “witch.” In a 1915 compendium of such anecdotes, entitled Human Animals, Frank Hamel documented: "There is a common saying that a cat twenty years old turns into a witch, and a witch of a hundred turns back into a cat."
The more concrete and stable a social structure aspires to be, the more that fluidity itself, in virtually any area, will inevitably be used to mark one as one of the accursed. This has proven dreadfully inconvenient to humankind overall, as beings who are marvelously fluid in their form, fluid in thought and fantasy, fluid in gender.
Here’s another excerpt from Human Animals, which I’ll go ahead and present in its entirety:
One winter evening dogs were barking all round a lonely house in Niort far more loudly than usual. The farmer rose from his bed and carefully opened the shutters. In the middle of the yard he saw a black and white greyhound, which apparently was enjoying itself molesting the other dogs, knocking them over with its paws without the least difficulty, and then picking them up in its jaws and throwing them to some distance as soon as they ventured within reach. The farmer drew on his trousers, into the seat of which his wife had sown a horse-chestnut as a talisman against witchcraft, loaded his gun and fired on the animal which fell dead. The next day he rose at an early hour to go and examine the corpse of his prey, and was greatly astonished to see the body of a beautiful woman dressed in gorgeous clothes lying in the very spot on which the dog was shot. Round her neck there hung a rich chain made of five strings of jewels bearing enamelled medallions beautifully chased, and on her fingers were a profusion of precious gems. In order to cover all traces of his involuntary murder, he quickly dug a hole in a corner of the yard and made a pile of faggots above the newly replaced earth. He had only just finished his task when a gentleman came into the yard, and asked whether he had seen a lady pass that way. From the particulars given, the farmer soon felt certain that the woman in question was the witch he had killed. Tremblingly he replied that he had not seen the lady. But a little dog that followed the gentleman ran to the heap of faggots and began turning them over, howling piteously. "You have killed my poor wife," cried the gentleman. "I am certain she came here." But he did not insist on looking into the pile, and presently withdrew, followed by the still whimpering dog.
Even though wild animals such as owls, bats, and wolves are heavily associated with witchcraft, the fragile human consciousness has seemed to find little refuge in the company of domesticated animals. Records of witchcraft trials are filled with stories about dogs, cats, goats, and asses — the animals which shared people’s homes, became involved in their work, served as playmates and companions. Through no fault of their own, domesticated animals became a symbolic gateway between the human world and the wilderness we tried (and failed) to shut out. The more familiar they become, the blurrier the line between their reality and our own.
The following is from La Fontaine's Fables, compiled in the late 17th Century:
THE CAT CHANGED INTO A WOMAN.
A Man loved, heart and soul, his favourite Cat;
She was his pet, his beauty, and all that.
Her mewing was so sweet, and was so sad:—
He was far madder than the mad.
This man, then, by his tears and praying,
By wizard charms and much soothsaying,
Wrought things so well, that Destiny,
One fine day, changed the Cat into a Woman
(A change uncommon).
And they were married, soon as they could be.
Mad friends became mad lovers then;
And not the fairest dame e'er known
Had ever such affection shown
To him she'd chosen from all men.
The love-blind fool, delighted with his bride,
Found not a trace of Cat was left at all,
No scratch or caterwaul;
He fondles her, she him: she is his pride;
She is the fairest of her kind,
A perfect woman, to his mind.
One night some mice came gnawing at the curtain;
It broke the lady's sleep, that's certain;
At once she leaped upon her feet—
To cats revenge is very sweet—
And on all-fours she ran to seize
Those creatures always prone to tease;
But she was changed—in shape and wit—
They did not care for her a bit
This aberration on her part
Was grief perpetual to his heart.
It never ceased to be the way
Whenever mice were out at play;
For when a certain time has gone,
The jug is seasoned; and the cloth gets wrinkles.
In vain we try to alter what is done,
The warning bell unheeded tinkles.
Things will not change again; one knows
There is no way to end the matter,
Neither by pitchforks nor by blows;
Though Habit you should beat and tatter.
You'll not be master of the place,
Saddle or bridle—how you will;
For if the door's slammed in its face,
It comes back o'er the window-sill.
As anecdotes like these pile up, they begin to feel like a sort of science. And in a sense they became one, with the birth of psychoanalysis: a field which set out to collect and collate our various dreams and delusions, presenting them as manifestations of an altogether human experience. But this could not be done without challenging the definition of what a human is, which wasn’t (and still isn’t) an area widely considered to be open to interpretation.
Most, it turns out, would still simply rather take their chances among witches and monsters.
This is the backdrop against which the 1942 film Cat People was set, a distinctly 20th century American fantasy in which the natural world had already been conquered and even the most free, sophisticated women still enjoyed the benefits of domestication.
By then, ideas related to psychiatry and psychoanalysis had drifted far enough into the mainstream that film viewers could understand references to them — in fact, horror films and fiction were responsible for popularizing many terms and conditions related to mental health. Each new discovery about ourselves presented the possibility of new monsters, or fresh ways of looking at old ones.
The doomed heroine of Cat People is a young woman named Irena, a Serbian immigrant working as a fashion sketch artist by day, and in her free time harbors a lurid fascination with a black panther caged in the local zoo; from her bedroom window, she can hear its screams at night.
As Irena is wooed by an almost comically bland fellow named Oliver, we learn about her fascination with the folklore of her ancestors — many of whom, she claims, turned to witchcraft and devil-worship during their 16th century enslavement by the Mamluks. There’s a hint of admiration in her voice when she explains to Oliver that "the wisest and the most wicked" of these fled to the mountains, escaping persecution for their beliefs. This is our first glimpse of Irena’s inner turmoil. She’s in love with both aspects of the story: the violence in good’s domination over evil, and the power of evil to wriggle free and evade detection, to lie dormant until it may once again gradually infiltrate the world of the good.
This is similar to the contradiction that allows one to absorb and believe all the fears related to womanhood, but also still love women — including loving them (or loving being one) specifically for the reasons they are feared.
As Irena’s romance with Oliver becomes more serious, we learn the specific nature of her torment: she believes that the physical act of lovemaking will transform her into a large, bloodthirsty cat, unable to resist killing her human mate. For most of the film it’s hard to tell whether she approaches this fear as an intense, irrational one that’s related to a deeper aversion to sex, or if it’s an all-too-literal possibility. In either case she’s a victim of her desires as well as Oliver’s, unable to resist the allure of a “normal” courtship, but equally unable to risk taking this last, fateful leap of faith into the American dream.
For most of the film’s brief 73-minute running time, she hovers fretfully at this threshold. Eventually the choice is taken out of her hands, nature and nurture conspiring together to doom her. Surrendering to her instincts may seem empowering in the short term, but she’s not in the Old World anymore; she lives here, in the New World, one where even the wisest and most wicked creatures (especially women) find it difficult to escape.
Beyond the supernatural elements, Cat People manages to encapsulate a particular American conundrum so brilliantly: many have traveled here from all over the world, seeking asylum or escape from their past. But they bring old ways along with them: beliefs, traditions, trauma, questions about life's meaning, all of which can make it difficult to acclimate, even if they manage to keep up "normal" appearances — but many can’t, or simply would rather not. Isn’t that freedom?
Those more inclined to integrate find themselves navigating a fluid existence, mingling with those who are blithely enjoying their American identity with a durable and totally unearned confidence. Hence Oliver’s parody of self-awareness in the face of mounting difficulties with Irena, a woman of complex origins which he’d never properly considered before marrying her. To his coworker and budding romantic interest, he confesses:
"You know, it's a funny thing, I've never been unhappy before. Things have always gone swell for me. I had a grand time as a kid, lots of fun at school... That's why I don't know what to do about all this, I've just never been unhappy."
But we have never seen evidence of Oliver’s happiness — not even in the early scenes during his courtship with Irena. All we see is his simplicity, his emptiness, his ego. The fact that this translates to “happiness” in the American consciousness, and has become conflated with our national identity, is terribly revealing of how the 20th century’s vague certainties primed us for the grim uncertainties of the 21st.
Irena’s condition in Cat People warns of the strength of everything that’s been suppressed in order for this empty version of America to exist, and how ferociously those thwarted forces crave expression. In the film, a psychiatrist is even enlisted to help examine the root of her superstitious beliefs; he associates them with buried childhood trauma and insists this can be treated, but her resistance is insurmountable. (It hardly helps that she now must also fend off the doctor’s sexual overtures as well as her husband’s.)
Oliver and the shrink both fail to realize that being "cured" would require Irena to sacrifice her entire identity, overwriting the beliefs and history (disturbing as they may be) which are all that remain of her heritage. As desperately as she might wish to join in their bland American “happiness,” her entire reality up to this point would be devoured by it. Irena has no idea who she is without this curse... or if there's really a whole person under there at all.
Whether the film intended it or not, all of this comments on the danger of using modern psychic tools to deliver someone to a specific outcome, a pre-determined form, polishing them to fit an acceptable range of rigid types and roles within a society that is, itself, dysfunctional. Since the dawn of the modern mental healthcare profession, this has been a particular peril among women, people of color, and LGBTQ+ folks. Too often, the aims of therapy are indistinguishable from domestication.
In fact, you can see this today in America’s slow, begrudging acceptance of LGBTQ+ liberation, which still tends to prioritize the kinds of transitions and narratives that involve a clear goal or purpose — a beginning, middle, and end. Hence the emphasis on “coming out” and “gay marriage” as the major milestones of a gay life, which must, in as many ways as possible, resemble a straight one. See also, the emphasis on direct male-to-female or female-to-male transitions among trans people, with clear markers indicating who counts as what.
But, meanwhile, the more fluid aspects of LGBTQ+ existence are also among the most common — such as experimentation, bi/pansexuality, and a fluid or non-binary awareness of gender. Any of these may be foundational to arriving at a firm, fixed identity, or ultimately serve as one in itself! But to many (including some in the community) that is a bridge too far. Without simplicity, rigidity, and a clear path to domestication, how can we tell if we’re doing it right? How can we decide if someone else is? How can we make sure we end up on the right side of the cage?
Even though Irena and Oliver never consummate their marriage, she’s still ultimately unable to suppress the cat within. She transforms, she stalks, she strikes, gradually moving more fluently back and forth between forms. By the end of the film she’s able to transform at will — or is she? Perhaps she’s just surrendered her will entirely, allowing herself to flow amorphously from one situation to the next.
Is this torment, or is it happiness? Is she finally, at long last, an American?
A zookeeper might remind us that dangerous animals need to remain caged for their own safety as well as ours; certain monstrous realities of modernity depend on remaining strictly compartmentalized in order to coexist. Hence society’s pressure for its members to be clearly one thing or the other, so we know what to do with you. Walking between worlds often requires a tremendous sacrifice, and is not a path everyone will respect. You’ve seen the recurring trope in werewolf movies: a victim’s attempt at forced isolation once per month, imprisoning themselves as a way of prolonging their existence in two simultaneous realities.
Those like Irena who would prefer to move fluidly through the world, being neither one thing nor the other, may feel they are left with no good choice, resigning to whatever befalls them as a consequence of having triumphed, even momentarily over the empty, rigid world.
It’s either eat, or be eaten, we’re told. If there are other options, we will have to discover them ourselves.