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>

 

Over the past few years I have developed an overarching disdain toward all sequels and remakes. In the wakes of recent remakes of not so distant classics such as Arthur (which I grew up on) and Footloose, I refuse to relinquish even the $2.50 to rent them from Family Video. It astounds me that an industry as prominent as the film industry is falling prey to mindless reproduction of a former financial success rather than using that success to propel more creative masterpieces. It’s even worse when it comes to sequels. After the first Shrek I had high hopes for the second, thinking that a development in such a great story couldn’t possibly be bad. To be honest, the second one wasn’t dreadful (but let’s just say I saw it once and haven’t even thought of it again until writing this article), but a third and a Christmas special? At this point they’re just continually watering down something that would have stood best on its own. Sequels, often made with different writers and directors, often try to duplicate the plot of the original with little to no substantive development (did someone say The Hangover?). But really, the second of the now trilogy of Hangover movies utilizes a pretty much identical plot of the first. I’m a little shocked that viewers haven’t lowered their expectations for these sequels. The Hangover Part II earned $31.7 million on their opening day (source: http://www.hollywood.com). I know the first was hilarious, but I had extremely low expectations for the second (which turned out to be accurate) and it’s surprising that I was one of the few who felt that way. But, I digress. Unfortunately, sequels seem to be a trend that we’re not getting rid of any time soon. If that’s the case, you better believe I’m keeping my fingers crossed for the upcoming 300: Rise of An Empire.

As if sequels aren’t bad enough, filmmakers are actually remaking movies that were made only 30 years ago or often less. To my horror, I recently came across  an article that hinted at the possibility of an upcoming remake of one of my favorite films, Thelma and Louise. Not only am I confident that no one could possibly handle those roles better than Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon, but I’m even more outraged by the notable lack of creativity and substance in the film industry right now. Thelma and Louise was made in 1991, only three years before I was born. WAY too soon to be remaking a movie of that caliber. Of course, there are many notable exceptions, such as Les Miserables and Romeo and Juliet, which have been successfully remade, but as far as films in the pop culture vein, writers seem to be running out of ideas. Everything is, of course, based off of something. We see this in art all the time. Manet’s Olympia draws from classicist Titian’s Venus of Urbino, but he does something completely different with it. He adds his own to the classic female nude, and thus elicits an entirely different response. Directly replicating something seems entirely without purpose. Are we so dry on creativity that we can’t take the message and production quality of Thelma and Louise and build on it? Its strengths should encourage more films like it, not duplication.

I believe that this urge to reproduce stems from two things: 1) money (since the implications of this are obvious, I’ll refrain from addressing them) and 2) a noticeable lack of complex characters, effective action sequences, and appeal to the audience’s intelligence. Of course, there are always exceptions, but overall we’re seeing films that choose one element and sacrifice the rest. Superhero and action movies so often sacrifice plot for exactly what their genre promises: pure action. Who cares what happens in Transformers? That’s not what they’re about. The plot and characters are merely there to support the incredible chase and scenes and special effects. Why can’t we have both plot and action? As I increase my film repertoire, it’s dawned on me that the further back in time I go, the more depth I find packed into a 2 hour film. And it’s the same with my formerly stated qualms with the three hour long Wolf of Wall Street. It’s as though filmmakers think that they need to sacrifice crucial elements of a good film to pack in everything. As filmmakers strive to put meaning in films, they become infatuated with symbolism and subtlety, which often results in the message sliding completely under the radar. In Thelma and Louise, they aren’t trying to hide anything, the meaning isn’t packed away into obscure symbolism, but rather used to invite the intelligent viewer to think critically about the real complexities of life and individuals that pervade our everyday experience.

So, I conclude with a plea for less flash and more substance in pop culture films. To quote Louise herself: “You get what you settle for.”

Paint yourself.
Soap, water, lipstick.
Decorate yourself.
Adorn yourself.
Brush your hair like your mother never did.
Tuck yourself in at night like your father never did.
Take deep breaths.
Caress yourself, touch yourself, love yourself.
It takes work, this beautiful art of falling in love with yourself.
It takes tears and redoes
You will fall and struggle
But it will be worth it
for who can love you
more than you love yourself?

Freshmen year there was a senior in my voice studio who was a double major Vocal Performance and Microbiology. When I asked her what was the hardest part of being a double major her response was immediate: sleep. The need for and lack of sleep has become a defining trait in modern society as high expectations and numerous time commitments reduce the number of hours which a person is able to sleep each night. According to the Center for Disease Control, sleep deprivation has reached the point of an epidemic with over 30% of adult Americans sleep deprived.

So how does this relate to music? For a vocalist, their physical body must be their most prized procession because their body is their instrument. While a violinist could purchase a new violin if disaster should strike, a vocalist is given one body and one voice to last them a lifetime. The immediate and long term effects (increased risk of hypertension, diabetes, depression, obesity and cancer) of sleep deprivation are common knowledge but to a vocalist the immediate repercussions are evident in the quality of sound which they produce.

As a vocalist, I need my 8 hours a sleep a night in order to produce a good sound the next day. As an engineer, 8 hours of sleep is as elusive as a perfect score on an exam. Here in lies the difficulty of being a double major, it is never a question of whether the tasks can be accomplish but a question of if they can before I have to go to bed. The decision between sleeping now so that I can sing tomorrow or finishing the EECS 463 homework is one which offers little room for compromise.

This week, sleep deprivation won. Next week, with a midterm to sing and an EECS exam worth 30% of my grade on the same day, it’s anyone guess. Here’s hoping that I (and the rest of my classmates) find the time to study and sleep.

The UGLI/Shapiro/Undergrad (library)/Mordor is an interesting place—on one hand, it can be a “cool place to study if you are doing group work or want a louder environment,” or so I say during orientation tours by which I mean you’ll have an entire sorority house screaming about a mixer they just came from—which isn’t bad, but just a fun surprise when you’re a freshman wandering around looking for a seat to read The Odyssey and to cry yourself into an early sleep, and on the other hand, it can serve as an unusual space for a reading event.

I was running from an interview with a friend and knew I was already late; prepping by taking off my sunglasses (yes, it was 7:15pm) and headphones, I jolted through the automatic doors that always open up just slow enough so as to hit me as I slide through, and I moved a chair into the back of the audience. I once again realized how much of a beautiful stereotype/cliche/wonder I am: I flourish as I take off my circle scarf, almost fall off my chair as I get tangled in my harem pants, and gasp as I spill sparkling water on myself, all as I get my notebook out to “take notes” aka write my own poetry for when I get bored, or, more accurately, when I can’t hear writers present their work.

I was not the only cliche around. The speakers went in and out and I was positioned in the far corner, and so most people’s voices blended quite nicely into the already formed ambience the UGLI has. Some voices wafted above the chatter to sit atop like the descant line while others formed the bass line and sent a rhythm through my chest. I thought I was either in a movie or being punk’d. Either way, I came to the reading for two of my greatest friends and for me, their voices shot through the air as if I was their target.

Being distracted by life as I usually am, I noticed when the light bulb went on and off (unexpectedly I might add—no it wasn’t morse code, no it wasn’t timed, no, no, no, just a lightbulb); I noticed when people jumped down the main stairs, colliding on each of the landings; I noticed when obnoxious people walked by, stopped, and then proceeded only after pointing and talking louder about how they were “confused . . . like what is even going on here?”; while I thought it was fitting for a literary reading to be done in a library (because books), it seemed that most passersby were flabbergasted.

“What’s a sugar daddy?”

My attention snapped back to the reading.

This particular reader ended and another arrived at the podium to read a work of fantasy fiction. By this point I was noticeably tired from my day and in full blown free association mode. Why fantasy? What is the value of fantasy? *cocks head* What would it be like to be a young adult author? What aspects of life would you ignore or erase? *stroke facial hair* Why did I used to love fantasy? When did this fascination stop? *stares into the void forming in the corner* Questions came and questions went but my face remained perplexed throughout this person’s story. I quickly wrote a poem about my confusion.

All of a sudden, however, my first friend was at the podium—the announcer was too quiet to be intelligible. I heard the change of voice, the change of posture, the change in the eyes—from everyday into the writerly, readerly position; my friend owned a podium like none other. She was flawless in her delivery, I was absorbed into her poetry: into her words and stories and images and thoughts and, to be frank, her magic.

A while later, another friend (who invited me) took over and had a grace that was unmatched. Although it was now late and people were leaving, my line of sight became unobstructed, and the closer I leaned in the closer I felt my tunnel vision closing in on the sound of her voice. From history and moving into her own work, she presented fact and fiction, blending and mixing, but always remaining lucid, artistic, and full of beauty. Had the audience been not so sober (in any interpretation), I would have cat-called and snapped and hoot and hollered (more than I already did). Goosebumps were a plenty and my face beamed.

There is something so indescribable that happens when watching people you love share their art.

Readings are some of my favorite events to attend. It’s at both comforting and alarming: the creativity that is so present in people around me, and it is in this space where it can be shared, ignored, and proclaimed. I become an audience member and this becoming is overpowering. Words fill my brain, my ears, my mind, my eyes, and my fingers. This page.

So yes. Café Shapiro proved quite the event.