Review – Trapped in the Closet

Imagine the dumbest possible turn a plot could take, and you’ll always know what’s going to happen before it happens in this miserable farce by hip hop “artist” R. Kelly. The musician’s imagination never extends farther than the most prurient, puerile, Springer-esque pseudo-scandals. For example, when he introduces a woman named Bridget, we instantly know that she’s been having sex with a little person. We know this not only because the only place in the kitchen her husband hasn’t searched yet is under the sink but also because her name is Bridget, which rhymes with a term that’s consistent with the taste level throughout this wretched crap. The experience is further marred by bizarre inconsistencies. The narration switches between first and third person. The language is censored in some sections but not in others. In a way it’s a shame that this is such a muddled mess, because the idea of “hip hop opera” has some merit. But boy does this ever not prove the point. Wish I’d skipped it