Arts & Entertainment

Art exhibitions with a gimmick run the risk of being too... well, gimmicky. Which is why "Birdspace: A Post-Audubon Artists' Aviary," last summer at the Norton, was especially amazing. For one thing, it was a large show that included more than 70 works by 50 artists. For another, it paid homage to an artist of great historical importance, the peerless John James Audubon. The art was limited to works connected in some way to our fine feathered friends, but beyond that, anything was fair game. And while most of the artists were Americans born in the mid-20th Century, their art was all over the map. A few stuck to fairly traditional media; others pushed boundaries and political hot buttons. Despite all these things, or maybe even because of them, it was an enormously satisfying exhibition in which an array of often fascinating parts added up to an even greater whole.

If a list of recent shows at your art museum includes retrospectives of Miró and Nevelson, to say nothing of a startling arrangement of thrift-shop clothing by an artful duo called Guerra de la Paz, you've had a good year. Samantha Salzinger, curator of exhibitions for the Art and Culture Center of Hollywood, is bringing the once-unremarkable museum into the artistic mainstream.

Salzinger's favorite art is, yes, kind of carny. A 2003 show, Pamela Joseph's "The Sideshow of the Absurd" (last year's Best Solo Art Exhibition), drew heavily on carnival culture and freak shows. "Joseph had an interesting take on what she called freaks," Salzinger says. "They're like someone in a fairy tale who's gone through a test in life. The rest of us all walk around fearing something terrible will happen to us. They live with it."

Photographer Diane Arbus had a similar vision. "Her pictures of a midget," Salzinger says, "are more about him being a man than a midget."

Yes, we've said it before -- this time last year, in fact -- but we'll say it again: The Boca Museum continues to dazzle. Some of the newness may have worn off the big, beautiful Mizner Park headquarters it moved into nearly four and a half years ago, but the programming has lost none of its luster. After the grand inaugural Picasso show, the museum has steered away from blockbuster exhibitions and emphasized variety. The payoff has been substantial: photography ranging from Roman Vishniac's documentation of Jewish life in Eastern Europe in the 1930s to Steve McCurry's images of contemporary Asia; Haitian paintings and voodoo flags from a local collector's stash; paintings by American expressionist Charles Burchfield as well as by Uruguayan visionary Ignacio Iturria; jewel-encrusted art objects from Italy's Buccellati family of goldsmiths; and the just-ended retrospective of the career of legendary American realist Andrew Wyeth. Any gaps in the schedule are readily filled by the annual "All Florida Juried Competition and Exhibition" and an ongoing series that highlights selections from local private collections. Throw in a respected art school, special events such as a film series, and one of the best permanent collections in South Florida and you have a full-service art museum that's hard to beat.

By the time he turned 40 last year, Enrique Martínez Celaya had a decade of exhibitions under his belt. His work -- which runs the gamut from paintings and drawings to photographs to sculptures and mixed-media installations -- is in demand among private collectors in America and Europe, and it has found its way into the collections of major museums such as the Met and the Whitney in New York and L.A.'s County Museum. So where does the Cuban-born Martínez Celaya set up shop? Why, Delray Beach, of course. That's right. Last year, the world-class artist -- someone for whom the world is his oyster -- chose Delray over not just Miami but also Los Angeles, New York, Paris, London, Berlin... And guess what: He's still a hot ticket. It's good to be Enrique Martínez Celaya.

When Revolution opened its doors last September, hopes were high that the new club would break the apparent curse that doomed the building's former occupants -- the Edge, Chili Pepper, and Star Bar/Venu (the latter having shut its doors faster than you can say, "What a dumb name for a rock club!"). But Revolution gets many of its acts from Clear Channel, and if there's one thing the communications giant is good for, it's bringing in the bacon. And that it has with a bevy of big names that run the musical gamut, from hip-hop (Snoop Dogg, Mos Def) to punk (Social Distortion, New Found Glory) to funk (George Clinton) and metal (Atreyu). A year ago, many of these acts wouldn't venture south of Sound Advice Amphitheatre in West Palm Beach. And if they did, they'd go straight to Miami. Sure, Revolution got off to a shaky start, canceling its Wednesday-night local shows and Friday-night Pulp event. But with plenty of star power on its roster every month (Papa Roach!), Revolution might just beat the curse of 200 W. Broward Blvd. Let's hope that if a new venue wins this category next year, it has a different address.

Yes, the band that New Times chose as Best Band to Leave Broward/Palm Beach in 2000 is one of the few bands that hasn't made New York City its new home. Though guitarist/vocalist Derek Hyde and drummer Eddie Brandt took a stab at relocating to the Big Apple, Hyde moved back home in 2001. And we can thank the rock gods for that, because this is one of the few local bands that truly knows how to rock. There ain't no shoe-gazing here, just pure entertainment. The Creepy T's balance song and shtick, whether it's Hyde's manic meltdowns or the band's catchy, B-movie-inspired tunes with amusing titles you're not likely to find on the next Franz Ferdinand album. Try "Tiger with the She-Bitch On" or "Fire Gods of the South Pacific" -- quite a bit more interesting than songs about heartbreak and cheating girlfriends. Then again, Hyde's not big on following the whole indie hipster trend; he's more likely to wear a hula skirt than denim and Converse. And while the vintage farfisa sounds of keyboardist Thomas Dementrius place the Creepy T's in garage territory, the band operates outside that genre's hipster image as well. But if you doubt the T's rock cred, check out their new gig as backing band for King Coleman, the legendary "Mashed Potato Man" himself. Indeed, the Creepy T's carry the torch of rock 'n' roll like a South Pacific fire god -- hula skirt and all.

Topnotch drumming has long been associated with jazz and blues musicians, from Buddy Rich to Gene Krupa, whose fans mostly view rock drummers as brutish rogues -- one-trick ponies who lack real musicianship. Of course, rock and metal fans don't care; they're positive that their guys are the best, whether it's Led Zeppelin's John Bonham, Rush's Neil Peart, or Metallica's Lars Ulrich. So when someone like Chris Maggio embraces both styles of drumming and succeeds, not even the most musically ignorant dipshit can deny that he's in the presence of greatness. While Maggio occasionally plays blues gigs around Fort Lauderdale, it's his stint as drummer for the hard-rocking AC Cobra that raises eyebrows and tweaks eardrums like a latter-day Keith Moon. Hearing Maggio's recordings is impressive enough, but only by watching him perform does one understand the intense kinship that can exist between man and instrument. Maggio doesn't just play his drum kit; he worships the damned thing -- and it responds accordingly.

While others just bitched about their jobs, Reece, an assistant manager at Brooks Brothers in Palm Beach Gardens, turned his workplace laments into literary gold with The Clerk's Tale. In 2003, the poem was awarded the prestigious Katharine Bakeless Nason Prize for poetry, and the New Yorker ran it on the magazine's high-profile back page. But what makes him a standout are his observations of the Sunshine State from his Lantana home. In Florida Ghazals, Reece's words ooze with revulsion and fascination about this weird place we call home:

Down here, the sun clings to the earth and there is no darkness.

Down there, the silence of the sea and the silence of the swamp seep into our muscles.

Florida is a frontier built by escapees.

We electrocute men. No one's past is certain.

Florida has no memory besides the monarch butterflies who remember everything.

The sea glitters, fish disappear like keys. 0, this land of exits. This land of forgetfulness.

In the days just before the 2004 presidential election, a sense of possibility and hope still prevailed. Shortly after the opening of Fort Lauderdale's new über-club Revolution, which single-handedly resurrected downtown's rock cred, Canadian industrial powerhouse Skinny Puppy treated a packed house to a punishing audio-visual onslaught that left no doubt what political platform it advocated. Highlights of the Puppy theater of pain included singer Nivek Ogre donning a gas mask and spewing its contents (green Jell-O) on the crowd; masked doppelgängers of Bush and Cheney receiving just desserts; a man in a keyboard-cage pumping out insanely inhuman sounds; and video-screen imagery that all but equated Dubya's reign with the Third Reich. Only a week later, we were disappointed by the results of another disastrous Election Day. But our ears were still ringing.

What, you thought Marilyn Manson was going to win this one just because the band once called Broward County home? Yeah, you could argue that, in terms of current significance, Manson is more relevant than a group of retired rappers. But the key terms here are local and all time, and 2 Live Crew wins on both counts. Lead by gold-grilled front-man Luther Campbell (a.k.a., Luke Skyywalker), the Crew fought the law and kicked its stuffy, tight ass -- right here in Broward County. The group took on not only Broward Sheriff Nick Navarro but also stuck it to Florida Attorney General Jack Thompson and Judge Jose Gonzalez, who banned the Crew's album As Nasty as They Wanna Be. When the decision was overruled two years later by an appeals court (and upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court), Gonzalez's efforts proved to have backfired, as 2 Live Crew ultimately sold more than 2 million copies of the album. So Manson can keep his self-promoting TV appearances and Michael Moore film cameos (and all that horrible music as well). 2 Live Crew did it first, they did it best, and they did it here.

The Music Factory? Wasn't this club once called the Metal Factory? Sure enough, after dropping the metal in 2003 (when New Times awarded it Best Turnaround in Clubland), the Factory added the more open-ended music to its name a year later -- just to ensure no one confuses it with some low-rent Hessian hangout. But the Music Factory is more than a venue to occupy aspiring emo bands waiting for Vagrant Records to pick them up. 2004 saw the club reeling in plenty of international punk and ska acts, from long-time staples of the underground (the Subhumans, the Bouncing Souls) to local faves (Against All Authority, the Agency) and even a piercing-studded cabaret show (the Suicide Girls Burlesque Tour). Oh, and don't be fooled by the naked chick on the Music Factory's website or the ads for "Sexy Ladies Night" on Wednesdays; the club hasn't gone all Coyote Ugly on us. It's still a rock club, and that includes the occasional metal band. What other venue would bring to town a Guns N' Roses tribute band like Ohio's Paradise City? It's about the music, man... and the mullet. Yes, you can have it all.

It takes more than silver-plated pipes or a bloodcurdling scream to really soar as a rock singer. If you're going to make your listeners feel anything deeper than horny or pissed-off, you gotta have a sense of subtlety and a range of vocal expression. Listen to El's self-titled 2004 release and you'll hear vocalist and guitarist Jeremy Clark stagger through longing, float with elation, and simmer in regret, all while maintaining a sense of earnest vulnerability that helps make this Lake Worth band one of South Florida's best. Growing up in Bogotá, Colombia, gave Clark a unique inflection and worldly musical sense that comes through in the band's sophisticated yet simple songwriting. The trio is currently working on a new album that will combine Clark's Latin leanings with European influences like the Cardigans, U2, and Radiohead. With Clark at the helm, you can be sure the music will take you places.

No petulant, open-mic warbler or girly pop tart, the Remnants' smoldering soulstress, Cynthia Duvall, is, ironically, responsible for a major part of the Broward quartet's balls-out attitude. Think of Duvall as the ass-kicking, sass-spewing, rock-star love child Janis and Iggy never had. With one of the hardest-working bands in South Florida, she, along with the rest of the Remnants (guitarist Jim Potts, bassist Dominic Siriani, and drummer Russ Moore), has rattled windows in venues from West Palm to Weston and left crowds panting with rock 'n' roll fever in her wake. Warning: The Remnants are not a subtle band. Check out Duvall on the band's six-song EP or, better yet, catch her belting it out live. You'll be glad you did, if you make it home in one piece.

With commercial art galleries dropping like flies, it's no wonder that pooh-poohing the cultural scene is a favorite South Florida pastime. It's hard to keep the faith when the new gallery you've just heard about has closed by the time you get across town to see it. And so, increasingly we look to noncommercial outlets for alternatives. Lately, the Schmidt Center Gallery at FAU has proved up to the challenge. The 2003-04 season's "Corporal: Contemporary Women Artists from Latin America" was an encouraging sign -- an eclectic group exhibition that wasn't afraid to be a little pushy. And this season's two group shows so far have delivered on that promise. "Me, Myself & I" was simultaneously tightly focused and expansive with its invitation to 30 international artists to revisit (and rejuvenate) self-portraiture. And "south X east: Contemporary Southeastern Art" was a lively, more in-depth survey of works by a dozen artists from seven states. If shows like this can't pique your interest, maybe you should check your pulse.

Whether he's playing his own original material or singing songs that are 200 years old, there's no denying the ruddy, sparkling voice of Matthew Sabatella. His recently released Ballad of America takes a look at the American folk music of the 1800s, Sabatella's nimble guitar and brassy, tremolo-laced vocals accompanied alternately by banjo, fiddle, accordion, and hoop drum. Older albums A Walk in the Park and Where the Hell Am I? show his knack for catchy, yet brainy, songwriting and interesting chord changes on his laid-back acoustic guitar. But Sabatella's best asset is easily his voice, urgent but unforced, sweetly melancholy in telling personal stories and powerfully evocative in rendering antiquated songs intimate again. It's a great gift, and Sabatella wields it with exceptional talent.

When a documentary film about the Yoko Theory was shown at the 2004 Palm Beach International Film Festival, things certainly looked up for the four ambitious groove-makers. However, a few months after the film debuted, the band split up, relegating its intriguing mix of reggae, jazz, and hip-hop to the film and a lone CD. Once a staple of clubs like Respectable Street, the Lounge, and Dada, the Delray Beach-based foursome performed around town like clockwork, never falling into inactive lulls or taking long breaks -- or letting girlfriends mess things up as they did in the band members' previous groups (hence the Yoko Ono reference). This, of course, begs the question: Was an unhappy girlfriend responsible for their breakup? Not this time. The band had simply run its course, dying of natural causes and proving that the theory was, well, just a theory -- albeit one that made some damned fine music.

"Is it skipping?" asks one wide-eyed newcomer, taken aback by Schirach's glitchy laptop IDM. Intelligent or not, who could dance to this South Florida electro-head's brain-bouncing beats? A seizure-spazzed monkey? With album titles like Global Speaker Fisting, Petroleum Peep Show, and Chopped Zombie Fungus, you know this German/Cuban wild man's music ain't gonna be your standard fare. No, brave listener, Schirach's digitized audio freakshow won't go over with the Yanni fan in your fam-damily. So totally twisted and tweaked is the mind of this young technophile that his deviant electronica puts even deranged acts like Aphex Twin in the shade. An October 2004 performance in Fort Lauderdale revealed his oscillating shades of unrestrained beauty and menacing mechanical chaos to a crowd drunk on $6 bottles of beer and Schirach's mind-bending imagination.

The follow-up to five six six five's self-titled debut, America's Idle isn't only the best local electronica review of 2004 -- it sits solidly near the top of local releases of any genre. Expanding on its loose, bedroom laptop session feel, the height-fixated duo of Seth Brody (the short one) and James Allen (the tall one) keeps a playful mood of experimentation, digging into low-fi ambient beats and barely there atmospherics. But there's also a distant focus to these ten songs, sort of the aural equivalent of watching a smudgy shooting star flash and fade. Live drums snap against wispy digital breaks, faraway sax and flute waft over twinkling keys and acoustic guitar, and voices surface from low in the mix to murmur about "the real truth." The drama evoked by all these minimalist elements builds into a surprisingly visceral impact, track by track, until the end of the album leaves you feeling strangely fresh and free. Word is that Brody is no longer with us, having escaped (as the best ones often do) to the grittier pastures of New York City. The fact is, five six six five measures up to anything the Big Apple can dish out. Here's hoping for a musical long-distance relationship.

It's sort of embarrassing to admit you actually liked Dashboard Confessional (anyone remember Chris Carrabba?) or the misbegotten emo genre. But for better or worse, all those heart-emblazoned-on-sleeve songs made folks start to pay attention to lyrics again, and when it comes to Keith Michaud, the rewards are nearly endless. With his genteel band Maypop and now with the equally genteel Summer Blanket, this Boca Ratonian has gradually unveiled a literate, thoughtful, and increasingly complex style. "I douse myself in alcohol to cover up the smell of funerals," like most of his best lines, doesn't come from the happiest of places, and his voice (think a slightly less-ragged Jeff Tweedy of Wilco) carefully ekes pleasure from the pain. The primarily acoustic Charm Wrestling (2003) and its more energetic follow-up, the aptly named Whisper Louder (2005), show that, even when he's annoyingly self-referential and more than a little hard on himself, he somehow forces the rank of legendary singer-songwriters to make room for a new South Florida sad sack.

Undoubtedly one of the hardest-working groups in South Florida, Secondhand Outfit wins the prize through sheer presence on the scene. Other bling-eyed rappers might aspire to the big time through infrequent singles and strategic guest appearances, but MCs Dirty Work and Keenan Smith and DJ/producer Palmeto hit the bricks every damned weekend, hosting underground hip-hop nights and rocking stages from West Palm Beach to Miami. The group's self-produced, self-released, self-distributed CD Clean Gloves Hide Dirty Hands is a collection of creepy break beats and dense, self-referential rhymes, a waltz through the darker side of suburban living. Influences range from DJ Shadow and Atmosphere to Sonic Youth, and a follow-up is due this summer. Blue collar, introspective, and understated, these guys are the essence of anti-bling. If you're trying to find the flourishing, independent hip-hop community in South Florida, try on the Secondhand Outfit. You'll be glad you did.

Show promoters are often thought of as being in it only for the money, and it's a reputation that's largely deserved. Most couldn't give two shits about the bands they book, as long as the kids pay through their teeth. And worst of all, they bring the same ten bands back every six months. That's why New Art School Booking exists. Formed in 2004 by Dominic Sirianni and Mark Pollack, New Art School proves that a little elbow grease can pay off. Needless to say, Sirianni and Pollack aren't in it for the money (they both have day jobs) but because they love the music. Oh yeah -- and the art. You know all those Rock vs. Art fliers you've seen around town and on MySpace? Now you know who's behind them. Who else can get punk legends like the Angry Samoans to fly out from California? Or up-and-coming Canadian metal acts like Cursed to play at Hollywood's Club M? But it's not just rock bands; local hip-hop acts like the Secondhand Outfit are regulars at New Art School shows. At this point, just about every local band is.

For four years, this South Florida outfit leaked home-brewed mini-albums to local radio, press, friends, and family; performed infrequently in public; and fought, broke up, lost members, and finally regrouped. When the choicest of their orchestrated electro-tropicalia songs were collected in one place -- Hard Times for Dreamers, released last spring on New York-based March Records -- the entire indie-pop world finally heard what we'd been raving about for so long. Fawning reviews followed. The album got played on the BBC. The band's femme faux-Francophilia creates a Möebius strip in which the 1960s meet the 1990s and beyond, inviting comparisons to everything from Stereolab to Brian Wilson to modern-day bossa nova. Adorable singer/guitarist Rocky Ordoñez and her multi-instrumentalist cohorts have (typically) laid low since Dreamers hit the bins, but at least we have one band that sounds just the way sun-drenched South Florida feels while handily throwing off the amateur trappings of a "local act."

While the most talked-about and eagerly awaited outdoor show was probably the return of the Pixies a few months after this extravaganza, that reunion had the rancid stench of opportunism and greed all over it. Sure, it made folks happy -- but at what cost? Kind of hard to feel good about a band getting back together just to pad its droopy bank accounts. The Cure, on the other hand, just threatens to quit. Of course, it never does, and last year, the band put out a halfway-decent album and toured behind it. But to its credit, the lovable old eyeliner-lovin' blokes put on a helluva show and brought a whole cadre of cool bands with 'em. With hot vixen Melissa Auf der Maur, Scottish dream-rockers Mogwai, sharp-dressed Interpol, disco-punks the Rapture (you've got to admit, a pretty good lineup) the daylong Curiosa Festival made up for the fact that Lollapalooza got canceled. And while it wasn't cheap, at least your cash wasn't going to line the pockets of four overweight phonies who once swore they'd never be seen together outside of a courtroom.

So you're at the neighborhood music store, browsing the local band section, and reading the production notes on the back of each CD. You're curious -- where do bands record around here? Noticing that Band A laid down its tracks at the posh-sounding Imperial Megalith Studios, you assume it's got its shit together more than Band B, which recorded at some place called the Farm... in Davie. You snicker, laughing at the thought of some yokel running a reel-to-reel recorder while stopping every 15 minutes to give ol' Bessie a good milking. But despite its bucolic location, the studio is a high-end, independent facility catering to local bands that don't have the megabucks to spend on a recording. And it's owned and operated by Larry Burlison, a guy who digs modern indie music and isn't bent on making his recordings into grandiose prog-rock orchestrations or overproduced pop-rock crap; the sound he aims for is vintage rock, though he knows how to tweak the digital software (ProTools) to get it. Just ask bands like High Times Lounge or film-score musicians like Adam Grabois. At the very reasonable rate of $30 per hour, it's no wonder they travel out to the boonies to cut their tracks.

Before there was the Coral Springs Museum of Art, there was the Schacknow Museum of Fine Art, an expensive vanity project for one of South Florida's most colorful characters. And when the deal between Max Schacknow and the City of Coral Springs went sour, the wreckage was salvaged by a person as low key as the millionaire is flamboyant. That person was the unassuming Barbara O'Keefe, nominally the Coral Springs Museum's executive director but also its curator. We're tempted to say she single-handedly turned the museum around, but she'd be the first to acknowledge that she hasn't done it alone. Still, her staff and budget are both minimal, and she struggles constantly to capture the attention of the region's media. And yet she perseveres, pursuing an ambitious agenda in an environment where others might be happy just to survive. The museum now has an artist-in-residence program that produces works for a small but growing permanent collection, and there's a sculpture garden with some of the best public art in the area. Never one to rest on her laurels, O'Keefe also recently installed a modest but impressive reference library in the museum, working with donations scoured from other facilities. Oh, did we mention that, year after year, she also puts together a handful of worthwhile exhibitions that showcase South Florida artists?

It may not attract the same obscure gems as the smaller houses downtown, but if you're eking out toward 'burbdom, you can still treat yourself to thoughtful fare at this multiplex. This was, after all, the only theater in Broward that was showing Sideways the week before its Best Picture nomination. Then too, if you just want to let your jaw hang slack for 90 minutes, the sound system and stadium seats will certainly accommodate Constantine or some such Keanu cacophony. Bonus points for maintaining scattered restrooms (to cut down on midfeature piss sprints), offering a decent arcade that gives change in laundry-friendly quarters, and running ticket giveaways for patrons who donate when the blood bus comes 'round.

Tired of the ho-hum sterility of the average multiplex theater? But bummed about watching another video alone at home? That's where Thursday nights at the Loft come to the rescue. Concealed above the hubbub of the music store below, the second-story theater is a hodgepodge of sofas and easy chairs that provides a homey milieu -- with plenty of company. Each week at 8 p.m., the theater presents "the best (and worst) in cult and horror movies," its fliers brag. Judge for yourself; over the past few months, the Loft has run films such as Ichi, The Killer; The Return of the Living Dead; Silent Night, Deadly Night; Black Christmas; and New Year's Evil. Best of all, it's free. Remember to bring your own popcorn and maybe even somebody to hold hands with.

Donald Margulies' funny, sad play about one unhappy Jewish family in 1965 Brooklyn received a startling, dynamic production from the Caldwell Theatre Company, a noted departure from that troupe's usual safe fare. Visually striking staging was matched with an engaging cast and outstanding work from the Caldwell's resident design team. The result was a memorable, unusual production that played like a strange dream -- fascinating, sometimes illogical, always compelling.

Best Actor: Sometimes good guys finish first. Cowling was thoroughly delightful as a geeky gay accountant whose crush on his baseball star client turns into a passion for the game itself. Radiating charm and good humor, Cowling's fumbling characterization was the emotional heart of the Caldwell Theatre production and a model of impeccable comedic timing.

Best Actress: Lisa Morgan has had our applause before -- for her dramatic and comedic work. But Morgan managed both at once in the Mosaic Theatre production of The Memory of Water. Her performance as an embittered woman in the North of England found the role's great sadness in a memorable portrait of middle-aged frustration. The role also showcased her gift as a comedienne; in one drinking scene, her teetotaling character goes on a bender in a priceless comedic riff, Morgan-style.

The veteran Hall has long been known for his consistent professionalism, but this time out, his direction of Donald Margulies' oddball memory play really excelled. Hall's compelling visuals were easy to spot and admire, while his subtle, beautifully paced scene work and careful coaching of two subteen actors were far more subtle but just as effective. The result was a carefully orchestrated, fully realized theatrical vision that was the highlight of the season.

This expert quartet delivered a beautiful balanced display of assured, nuanced acting in the Palm Beach Dramaworks production of this Edward Albee play. As a vacationing couple dodging fears of aging and mortality, Felix found depths of honesty and simplicity, while Olsen radiated courage and joy. As a lizard couple from the sea, McKeever and Lowe made these implausible characters thoroughly believable.

Polak's startling performance as a homophobic baseball pitcher provided a welcome jolt of menace and unpredictability to the Caldwell Theatre drama. With a rough Southern drawl and a rangy, awkward physicality, Polak was thoroughly convincing as the play's gay-hating nemesis, who suffers a frightening nervous breakdown in a memorable second-act confrontation. We don't know when Polak will play our area again, but we hope it's soon and often.

As a tightly coiled Republican suburbanite in conflict with her liberal houseguests, Ostrenko's underplayed performance added dimension and empathy to a rather shallow role. Filling in the character's silences with telling subtle behavior, Ostrenko beautifully revealed a conflicted, conventional woman afraid to discover her most profound feelings.

Bennett's impressive baseball-themed design on the Caldwell Theatre stage featured locker room and shower interiors, framed by a baseball scoreboard and a massive green outfield wall. Salzman's expert, evocative lighting, using pools of light and streaks of color, was equally memorable, with several scenes resembling classic sculpture. The result was stagecraft excellence.

Sometimes great gifts come in small packages. Set during the Civil War, Robert Linfors' brief playlet packed a real punch, examining the anguish and fear of parents whose fired-up young son is ready to enlist in the Confederate army. Linfors' timeless dramatic dilemma clearly resonated in today's wartime environment, and City's fine cast, featuring Elizabeth Dimon as the grieving mother, made a lasting impression.

Let's say you have a hankering to look at hats. Or handbags. Or vintage lunchboxes. And let's say you're interested in such paraphernalia not as a consumer but as a pop-culture connoisseur in search of some context. Where do you turn? Not to the nearest mall, certainly. No, your best bet is a visit to the Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History, which is housed, fittingly, in a 1960s storefront that was once a five-and-ten-cent store. The museum, which has its origins in a 1999-2000 sleeper exhibition of Barbie dolls at the nearby Cornell Museum, has presented shows focusing on African-American sacred music, the relocation of American Indian tribes, magazine covers with patriotic themes, and the Mohawk ironworkers who helped construct New York City's skyscrapers. It probably remains best-known, however, for 2003-04's landmark Hats, Handbags & Gloves: From Past to Present, one of the quirkiest exhibitions ever to grace a South Florida museum. Next up: Fore: The Love of the Game: Golf from the 17th Century to the Millennium. Can things get much kinkier?

Even in its infancy, crammed into a tiny space on Clematis Street in West Palm, Dramaworks has always demonstrated a fidelity to quality and integrity. Now in its fourth season, the company is enjoying a new theater space and a string of superior productions. What makes the 'works work? For starters, this company doesn't talk down to its audiences; it challenges them with rarely produced classics by Sartre, Albee, and other giants. And then there's the fine array of talent, featuring some of our area's top actors and designers.

For more than two years, 20-somethings Yvonne Colón and her curly-haired partner, Garo Gallo, have been developing the local arts community, one rock show at a time. It was back in '02 that Colón first solicited her folks for the seed money to start BTW; since that time, she and Gallo have become the advance team -- a sort of hipster infantry -- that brings art, music, and culture to places previously renowned for lingerie shows and dollar beers. They began promoting local bands at the Fort Lauderdale Saloon, giving the ailing bar and music scene a much-needed shot in the arm, and continued with forays into Broward's less-than-glamorous underbelly. The Las Olas Art Center, the Salt Box, and venerable titty bar Gum Wrappers have all benefited from their insight and effort. As of this writing, the promotion duo continue trailblazing with their latest venture at Karma on Riverwalk, hoping to revive a once-thriving dance club as a live music mecca. You gotta wish them luck -- the harder they work, the better the scene for all of us.

Before April of last year, the Fort Lauderdale Saloon was just another cinder-block and plywood rat trap on Federal Highway. Sure, the place had charm (and a laundry machine), but it was of the "let's go slumming" variety, hardly a draw to anyone other than aging drinkers and long-time regulars. Then during spring and summer of last year, a tiny but significant renaissance occurred. Affable owner Walter Ciuffini partnered with local promoters By the Way to bring favorite local acts into the joint -- bands like AC Cobra, Humbert, and Southern Flaw. Soon, it became clear to all that good shows bring hip folks, and hip folks drink a lot of beer. Eureka -- there's money in that there music! BTW has moved on, but Rock Bottom Hip-Hop Nights have taken its place on a nearly weekly basis. Now Friday nights mean breaking b-boys, graffiti in the parking lot, and rappers from all over South Florida strutting their stuff. All this killer music, and the Saloon still offers cheap beer and chicken nuggets. Now that's true South Florida culture.

When the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art closed its doors for the last time in late March, it was the end of a noble experiment that lasted five years. PBICA, as it was known in the alphabet-soup art world, had been a work of love, not to mention considerable cash, for South Florida arts patrons Robert and Mary Montgomery. The lovely old Art Deco movie theater in downtown Lake Worth that was PBICA's home had been a museum before, when it held the collection of J. Patrick Lannan in the 1980s, then again in the 1990s after the Lannan Foundation turned it over to Palm Beach Community College. The Montgomerys, who bought the building from the school, hoped that other support for the museum would materialize once they got it up and running. They were wrong, unfortunately. During its brief, shining moment, however, PBICA presented exhibitions that attracted national attention, including its inaugural venture, "Making Time: Considering Time as a Material in Contemporary Film and Video." Other highlights included the exuberant group show "Brooklyn!" and "The Smiths: Tony, Kiki, Seton," which brought together for the first time the works of three prominent artists from the same family. At least the museum went out with a bang: Its final exhibition, "I Feel Mysterious Today," was a multimedia extravaganza every bit as exciting as its first.

The next time someone you know whines about how lackluster the South Florida art world is, give 'em a good smack and recite the list of artists who have had solo shows here in the past year alone. It includes established giants (Andrew Wyeth at the Boca Museum, Robert Rauschenberg at the Miami Art Museum, Louise Nevelson and Joan Miró at Hollywood's Art and Culture Center) and lesser names of exceptional promise (Michael Joo at the Palm Beach Institute, Zhang Huan at the Norton, Ignacio Iturria at the Boca Museum). They're all outshone, however, by "Louise Bourgeois: Stitches in Time," which enjoyed an all-too-brief run at the Museum of Contemporary Art. While not exactly a career retrospective for Bourgeois, who at 94 is still active, the exhibition was an outstanding look at an artist whose vast output has come to be seen as more and more important over the past quarter of a century. "Stitches in Time" was a landmark show for a landmark artist.

Sometimes, if you come from New York, Boston, San Francisco, Bogotá, or Buenos Aires, it seems that South Florida is a cultural wasteland. But then you visit the Norton. It's a beautiful piece of property located a stone's throw from the Intracoastal Waterway. There, you can immerse yourself in the work of Duane Hansen, Jose Bédia, Georgia O'Keeffe, Jackson Pollack, Claude Monet, Henri Matisse, Marc Chagall, and Paul Klee, among others. Indeed, the permanent collection includes more than 5,000 pieces. Founded in 1941 by an industrialist named Ralph Hubbard Norton, the Art Deco/neoclassical gem has grown like crazy in the past 12 years. It doubled in size in 1993, then added a wing in 2003 that included 14 new galleries -- and almost doubled the gallery space again. It is, in our view, the one place in this overcrowded subtropical morass where you can lose yourself in the great thoughts of great thinkers. You say you live in Fort Lauderdale or Hollywood or Boca Raton and you've never been there? Well, dumbbell, go! Maybe jump on the TriRail and pack a bag lunch. It'll be a trip you will never, ever regret, no matter how many times you do it. During the summer, the Norton is open 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday and 1 to 5 p.m. Sunday. General admission is $8 for adults.

There's a reason so many artists resort to naming their works Untitled. Titling a work of art can be almost as tricky as creating it. You want to be clever but not too clever, striking the right balance between the evocative and the descriptive, between poetry and prose. The same goes for exhibitions, and curators don't have the luxury of leaving one without a moniker. That's why "The Inspired Moustache: An Exhibition of Diverse Expressions of Salvador Dalí through Books and Memorabilia from the Collection of Rik Pavlescak" seems to be just about perfect. The "inspired moustache" part is the poetry: an image that all at once summons the artist's appearance along with his affectations and his maniacal creativity. The rest of the title is the prose, precise and descriptive to an almost comical extreme. Best of all, it slyly alludes to Dalí's penchant for such flamboyant titles as Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate One Second Before Waking Up and Soft Construction with Boiled Beans: Premonition of Civil War.