Trapped In the Theater

Last night, with roughly one hundred of my peers, I filed into the Michigan Theater for an event the likes of which Ann Arbor has not seen in some time. Whoever decided to create an interactive sing-along version of R Kelly’s hip-hopera “Trapped In The Closet” is nothing short of a genius, and that person’s brilliance is only surpassed by Mr. Kelly himself, who has the kind of artistic vision the rest of us mere laypeople can only begin to understand. I knew I had stumbled into one of the most unique evenings of my time here at Michigan when, mere steps inside the theater’s lobby, I was handed a goodie bag by a lovely man who could not have been under the age of eighty, complete with condoms, fake money, fake cigarettes and a small handheld water gun. I can imagine no other tools I would need for a viewing of Trapped in the Closet, and complete with my necessary arsenal, I made my way into the auditorium.

Before I was even half way down the aisle, the lights dimmed and the screen started flickering. Panicking slightly that the footage was about to begin before I was properly situated in my practiced “Trapped-in-the-closet-ultimate-comfort-sitting-pose,” I was surprised to see a series of words flashing up on screen. The film instructed everyone to, and I quote, “Stand up for some bumping and grinding.” We followed its instructions carefully; the audience stood, surged through the aisles, danced in place, shot streams of water and sang along to choice R Kelly music videos. The trio finished with Mr. Kelly’s remix to Ignition, setting the crowd off on an energetic dancing spree. When over, the screen transitioned to another black background and white text, instructing everyone to return to their seats for the premier event.

Fast forward about ninety minutes later, and I staggered from my seat, disoriented, confused, enlightened, astounded, changed. Admittedly, I had only seen the first four of five chapters before last night, and the shock and surprise undoubtedly contributed to my disarray. I was in no way prepared for the twisting and convoluted plot, and each of its intertwining subplots. There are surprising twists every few minutes, and shocking revelations of same-sex relationships, pregnancies and adultery, as well as dreams and flashbacks. All the while, R Kelly narrates every move with his utterly static soundtrack and crooning vocals. When R Kelly’s character finds an empty condom wrapper in his wife’s bed, he dramatically ends the chapter with fading repetition and gasps: “A rubber… A rubber… A rubber!”

The brilliance of Trapped in the Closet lies in its repetitive surges of dramatic instrumental swells. There are also very confusing moments, problematic situations and and harmful stereotypes that contributes to the film’s flaws. There is nothing quite like the experience of seeing the first 22 chapters, and nothing quite like it in all of the art world. If you’re pressed for time, here are the first and 22nd chapters; I encourage you to sing along and spray fake money into the air when you’re finished. Keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times, it’s an absurdly wild ride.

<chapter one> 

<chapter twenty two>