By Robert Bergin
OH SHIT.
Only four more days people. To talk too much about the joke is to ruin the joke, so if you’re not clued in, get your crusty, no-Trapped-havin’ ass down to the nearest video store and buy yourself a copy of Kells’ ruminations on love and infidelity. His message is clear and essential: The closet in which Sylvester initially takes refuge is nothing compared to the emotional closets we trap ourselves in every day.
We have all fucked and fought, loved and lost. Trapped in the Closet reflects that pain: Bridget’s tears are our tears. The midget’s dookie-stained pants are our dookie-stained pants. R. Kelly knows that life is but a revolving door of pleasure and pain. He just dressed it up with a bumpin’ beat and lyrics stuffed with metaphors that border on Shakespearean. (“A fish with titties”? Didn’t he crib that from Falstaff?)
And that’s art, man. To hold, as t’were, the mirror up to nature. Can the second installment possibly top the first? Out-heroding Herod never sounded so sweet.
(The next five chapters are already up at ifc.com. The site is releasing a new chapter each day, so if you simply can’t wait for Tuesday, pop on over there.)