Being R. Kelly

It's beyond me why I watch dumb shit like the VMAs, but R&B singer R.Kelly, the diamond buried in the coal of Diddy (excuse me, Seandoleeza Rice)'s stocking, earned those three hours of my life. Overtly lip-synching to his own 300,000-part soap-operetta "Trapped in the Closet," Kelly flung his body around the ramparts of a mostly bare set as he acted out the roles of a wronged wife, a wronged husband, a wronged gay boyfriend, and a wronged thug lover. Finger wagging, hands on hips, neck swiveling: the jailbait maven resembled nothing so much as a Malkovich marionette in Spike Jonze's first feature. An intentional social satire, I'm quite sure.