It is tough to pinpoint when the kitschapalooza called “Cats” reaches its zenith or its nadir, which are one and the same. The choices are legion: Judi Dench gliding in as Old Deuteronomy, a Yoda-esque fluff ball with a huge ruff who brings to mind the Cowardly Lion en route to a drag ball as Queen Elizabeth I; the tap dancing Skimbleshanks (Steven McRae), dressed, unlike most of the furries — in red pants and suspenders, no less — leading a Pied Piper parade; or Taylor Swift, as Bombalurina, executing a joyless burlesque shimmy after descending on the scene astride a crescent moon that ejaculates iridescent catnip.

I could go on and must go on — yet how to explain the seemingly unexplainable, beginning with a narrative and language that borders on the gnomic? A doctoral thesis could be written on how this misfire sputtered into existence, though there’s nothing new about the movies’ energetic embrace of bad taste. One problem is that “Cats” was directed by Tom Hooper, a well-behaved journeyman (“The King’s Speech”), who is nowhere near vulgar enough for the challenge he was hired for, which is to translate Andrew Lloyd Webber’s money-printing musical to the big screen.

Certainly Hooper has made a robust effort, as suggested by all the busy leaping, pirouetting, stretching, caterwauling and meowing. To help make the transition to the screen he’s enlisted some talented performers to slink and sing, including Francesca Hayward, a principal dancer for the Royal Ballet making her movie debut as Victoria. The original musical involves a clowder of cats with its own lingo (“Jellicle”) that convenes on the night one is chosen to be reborn. This cat Christ element remains in the movie, which was written by Hooper and Lee Hall. But now the focus has shifted to Victoria, an abandoned kitty who sets off on a heroic journey amid swishing tails, bumping heads and hisses.