One has to wonder whether when he made his notorious quip about his preference for screen partners (“never work with children or animals”), W.C. Fields truly understood how some of the most interesting performances in film history have come from these unexpected sources. Of course, his cynicism was not unfounded, and for the most part, it was relevant – but for every disastrous production that is negatively impacted by the presence of non-traditional actors, there is a film like Rhubarb, which shows that animals can indeed act, and turn in performances that can rival their human counterparts – at least this is what the industry has been trying to convince us to believe over the years, with several films that place an animal, whether feline, canine or something else entirely, at the heart of the story, and bank on the audience falling in love with these non-traditional protagonists and essentially ignoring some of the more well-concealed shortcomings that are often found in these films. Rhubarb is a perfect example of this principle in practice – Arthur Lubin (a very reliable journeyman director who was particularly adept at working with actors rather than making high-concept films) helms a charming and very funny film that is based on the novel by H. Allen Smith, which tells the delightful story of a peculiar little cat with a big heart, but who inadvertently finds himself the source of a lot of controversies amongst the community into which he is brought, especially when his loving owner dies and leaves his entire fortune to this lovable creature, which only makes the late businessman’s friend (who was tasked with being the cat’s guardian) all the more concerned since he suddenly is thrust into controversy – and as he soon learns, there are few forces more powerful than someone scorned after having their fortune and future stolen by a cat, which would honestly upset any of us. Perhaps not a work of high culture in the traditional sense, but as thoroughly entertaining as a film of this calibre can get, Rhubarb is an absolute delight, and a film that offers us a burst of much-needed escapism, which is objectively valuable and makes this entire film worth our time.

Rhubarb is a film that proves the importance of a story well-told. In no uncertain terms, this narrative is truly absurd – it never ventures beyond the realm of reality in a way that makes it intentionally surreal, but the very nature of the story is bound to raise a lot of curiosity. It’s very conventional, and it’s not the first time we’ve seen a film feature an animal in the leading role (which is normally an iron-clad method of ensuring that audiences will always be on board since very few of us will baulk at the opportunity to see a story based around lovable animals), but it understands that some degree of nuance needs to go into the storytelling process, or else it will also become quite unwieldy, which is always a threat for stories that take broad swings, not knowing whether it can follow through (or even hit the ball in the first place – this is a film that uses baseball as a major plot point, so this metaphor is doubly important), but of which Rhubarb quite effectively takes advantage. It’s all a matter of tonal consistency and striking the right register – this kind of story needed people who genuinely believed they were making the most compelling and captivating film ever produced in the medium, but without taking the subject matter seriously, which is a challenge in itself, considering how there were so many opportunities in which this film could have simply collapsed in on itself based on its bizarre premise. It does stretch the limits of plausibility a bit thin. Still, it never feels as if it is on the verge of falling apart, but every decision contributes to this outrageously funny but also quite insightful portrayal of modern society, as seen through the story of the world’s wealthiest feline – and the honest belief from everyone involved that what they were working with is special makes every moment of this film worth our time.

The star of Rhubarb is undeniably the aptly-named Orangey, the charming cat that had already started to take Hollywood by storm based on his temperament and ability to steal our hearts without much work, as is often the case with animal performers, who manage to be compelling despite their logical limitations as actors. There is an argument to be made that a film like this isn’t propelled by a talented animal actor so much as it is driven by a good editor, who shapes the performance more than anyone else (except perhaps the handlers tasked with training these animals and getting them ready to play a wide range of characters – in this case, it was the legendary trainer Frank Inn, who was the man who trained several iconic animal performers at the time, stretching from the Golden Age of Hollywood to the more recent era), but this is more a cynical view that ultimately dismisses the very clear fact that some films are just naturally more charming based on their ability to capture our attention with adorable animals and that not every performer needs to have professional training to capture our interest. Orangey is joined by Ray Milland and Jan Sterling, who are essentially the forces that help guide the narrative. There’s something so amusing about an actor as serious as Milland, who was mostly known for his dramatic work, playing second-fiddle to a cat, but he is so committed to the role, and his work is strong enough to propel it forward. Not to mention, everyone in this film seems to be having fun with the premise – no one seems to mind being in roles that essentially are supporting to an animal (not even Elsie Holmes, who plays the film’s feline-hating villain), which only makes Rhubarb all the more compelling, since there is a sense of real admiration between everyone involved, and a sense of fun that helps keep the film lightweight and entertaining.

It may seem overly obvious, but a film like Rhubarb was never intended to take itself too seriously, and anyone who enters into a film like this expecting sophisticated, elegant storytelling centred on deep sociocultural themes is certainly setting themselves up for disappointment since few films are more dismissive of this idea than this one, which actively engages with its outrageous premise. This isn’t even along the lines of those emotionally resonant films like Old Yeller or Umberto D. that feature animals in the central roles, but gradually use them as vessels to convey deeper meanings that relate to society and the human condition as a whole. Rhubarb is a film about a cat that inherits 30 million dollars, which causes a stir within the community that leads to our feline protagonist becoming the bane of many annoyed individuals’ existence – there’s nothing much more to the premise than this, and the film provides us with exactly what we’d expect, and not much more. However, this doesn’t mean that it lacks nuance – the reason this film is so outrageously funny is because of how it satirises society, carefully and consistently challenging conventions in a way that is bitingly funny and also unexpectedly profound – entire court cases are centred around this cat, who also becomes something of a media sensation (and in a modern world where such stories would probably be tacked on to the footnotes as “feel-good” stories, this is quite a fascinating choice), with the entirety of New York City being invested in the journey of this animal, who is something of a minor celebrity all in his own right. It’s a unique and charming approach that the film does not take for granted, and it instead provides us with a bitingly funny and quite satirical look at a heightened version of reality, one that is so simple that a common housecat could cause a city-wide panic that touches on every sector of society.

Rhubarb is certainly a hilariously off-beat but incredibly charming film that offers us very little outside of what it promises at the start – 90 minutes of hilarious scenarios involving the increasingly hostile relationship between a group of disgruntled individuals and the nonchalant feline who is entirely indifferent to their feelings of disdain, going about his business, not knowing that he is unintentionally the source of some hilarious tension. It does take a certain level of suspension of disbelief to fully commit to this film, but considering this was marketed as a family-based film, it had enough artistic merit to entertain a wider audience, which it does very successfully through employing a fool-proof technique that combines a good story, strong acting and a meaningful approach to the material that may not be revolutionary, but has its moments of wonderful poignancy and complexity, even if they are few and far between. As a whole, this film is a simple delight – 90 minutes of charming, upbeat humour that shows us that not every work of art needs to be taken seriously. Some can simply exist as eccentric and hilariously funny comedies that don’t contribute much, but rather just offer us some entertainment. Those seeking emotional resonance and narrative complexity should steer clear from Rhubarb. Everyone else who enjoys an occasionally absurd and mindlessly silly comedy about a cat causing trouble will feel right at home in this film, which is as delightful as it is chaotic, which is its two defining features and the primary force behind this absolute delight of a film.