Culture

This haven of artistic talent just across the Trinity in Southern Dallas is named after the artist who we’d seen paint a mural in a Lutheran church many, many years ago. It was astounding. His wife opened a gallery in March 1997. All the pieces are eye-catching, and there’s a lot to eyeball–anywhere from 30-50 artists’ work is on exhibition. There are sculptures in wood and carvings and figurines. The owners host several small art shows each year and one major exhibition in the fall.

When local singer-songwriter Colin Boyd sings Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” during one of his various regular engagements around town, you’d swear he’d gotten the song mixed up with James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” In fact, no matter what song Boyd happens to be singing, you’d swear he’d gotten it mixed up with a James Taylor song. The fact is, Boyd makes Jackson Browne sound like speed metal. We’ve seen stains that are tougher. Maybe it’s not that big a deal when Boyd is running through a cover of, say, Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle,” but when he’s tackling The Man in Black’s body of work (during a recent appearance at St. Pete’s Blue Marlin, Boyd offered versions of “Ring of Fire” and “I Walk the Line,” and we were only there for a half hour), we must take exception. It’s like watching Hugh Grant star in a remake of The Searchers. No thanks.

For those who adored the movie Love Jones, there’s a Dallas spot that’ll set the mood for your poetry. On Sunday nights this little hole-in-the-wall turns the lights down low, lights the candles, fires up the kitchen for a veggie delight, and turns the microphone up. This is a great place to go and relax to the sound of the rhythmic voices of novice poets. The atmosphere is electric, and the talent is vast.

Conduit’s Annex Gallery would be considered roomy if there were, say, pants and shirts hanging in it instead of art. Never let it be said, however, that the Annex Gallery didn’t make the most of its limited space. Like its counterpart, Conduit Gallery, Annex has opened itself to some of the brightest up-and-coming artists, including the first show by members of Denton’s Good/Bad Art Collective in Dallas. As time goes by and a new layer of paint is added every six weeks, Annex only grows smaller, but it’ll always have big ideas.

The other day, we were reminded of how little this title really means: We were driving past NorthPark and passed all that remains of the NorthPark I & II, which has been rendered a shell of its former glorious self. Soon enough, the building will be torn down and replaced by a department store, which is the last thing this town needs more of (Dallas is French for “mall”). Ours was a happy childhood spent waiting in line at the NorthPark I & II; it was where we saw Star Wars and Superman for the first time, spread out from wall to wall in a theater where space was the final frontier. But in the city that spawned the googaplex (the AMC Grand, with its 24 screens, was once the largest theater in the country), the NorthPark I & II was deemed a dinosaur, and all that remains are the bones. Until the Angelika and the new Landmark art-house multiplex open up at the end of the year, we’re left only with decaying vestiges of grandeur (the Inwood, which we’ll always treasure), the last gasps of intimacy (the AMC Highland Park, where every theater feels like your own screening room–or TV screen), low-frills gourmet movie-going (the Granada and its dine-out spawn), and the megaplexes, with their stadium seating and chicken-strip cuisine. The Cinemark 17, with its new IMAX add-on, is the best of the lot. Every seat’s a winner, the “coffee shop” in front serves up a tasty movie-food alternative, the arcade makes for a great time- and dollar-waster, and, oh yeah, you can see some movies if you’re up to it.

OK, we hesitated about this one. Sometimes the only listener we’ll concede that Mitchell deserves during one of his more lackluster afternoons is Dan from Tyler, a regular caller to various public radio shows. Then again, finding five scintillating topics a week (and exciting speakers to discuss those topics) is no small undertaking. At least once or twice a week, Mitchell hits his stride, and he invites a well-informed guest and asks him well-informed questions. We favor the times he reads something in a mildly erudite periodical (The Nation, The National Review) and invites the author to discuss the subject.

We must admit a certain bias toward neurotically flamboyant actors–not the Sarah Bernhardts and John Barrymores of yore, who took theatrical polish and scrubbed themselves till they bled with the effort of universalizing tragedy in ridiculous booming voices. We speak of those who have taken the so-called Stanislavskian Method of psychological detail and self-exploration and turned it into a parade of confessional tics and alienated affectations. But then we watch a consummate professional who needn’t gesticulate eccentrically or break the dialogue into chewable staccato chunks, someone who can create wholly different characters without the birth pains that plague more stylized performers, and we are reminded that minimalism has its rewards too. Beverly May, an Obie-winning veteran of many Broadway and off-Broadway productions and a former member of Adrian Hall’s ensemble at the Dallas Theater Center, seems at once calmer and more passionate than virtually everyone else with whom she shares a stage. She would have been an easy choice for the title role of Mrs. Klein, the story of imperious Austrian psychoanalyst Melanie Klein, who fought private and professional wars with her degreed daughter and who may have driven her son to suicide. This Melanie Klein manqué disturbed, disgusted, and touched us without Beverly May once revealing the actor’s agenda. That’s the most sublime illusion theater can create. If you’re thinking that our selection of Susan Sargeant’s Wingspan Theatre is exclusively because of May’s performance in Mrs. Klein and in Grace & Glorie (when she played an illiterate Appalachian woman), you are partially right–except that Sargeant is no slouch as an artist herself. The best show at the Festival of Independent Theatres, Only Me, was Wingspan’s. Sargeant has a knack for picking material for all-female shows whose shelf life isn’t limited by its own doctrinaire concerns, such as The Last Flapper, her smashing one-woman show about Zelda Fitzgerald. Political art can be powerful, as the poet James Merrill once observed, but once another cause comes along, the words begin to smell like they’re rotting. We hope Sargeant and May continue their association in the future.

Before besting a miserable field in District 8, James Fantroy told constituents at a debate this spring at Singing Hills Recreation Center that people in his district are worried about being poisoned by water siphoned specifically to South Oak Cliff from the spill-infested Lake Tawakoni. Paranoia is always one of our favorite traits in an elected official. It’s even more fun when it’s spiked with racial overtones. No wonder nobody votes in this town. It’s kind of a logical choice to simply bag it and go to a movie.

The DMA does not win by default. Dallas’ one and only combines the best aspects of art museums from across the metroplex. It has the regional art and historical objects of the Amon Carter and Kimbell. It showcases new talent and cutting-edge, contemporary works as do the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth and the Arlington Museum of Art. Its large, continuously displayed permanent collection puts it over the top, allowing it to highlight acquisitions in special-themed exhibits and retrospectives. Plus it looks ahead with community-centered exhibits (Dallas Perspectives on Art and Religion, its home companion to Seeing God: Art and Ritual Around the World) and its Concentrations series, which has focused on young artists such as Annette Lawrence, Shirin Neshat, and Richard Patterson.

If you had bought Theatre de Marionette season tickets for the little ones this year, you could have assured them of seeing fun, professionally done, European-style puppet performances of such kiddie classics as Pinocchio, The Little Mermaid, Aladdin & His Lamp, Peter Pan, and The Littlest Angel. This is not Freddie the Clown or Howdy Doody stuff. Russian puppetry artist Tina Gromova, who toured Eastern Europe and Asia with the renowned Moscow Puppet Theater, is this year’s headliner. Recommended for kids 3-4 years old and up. Individual tickets are still available: $8 for adults, $7 for children.

Undermain Theatre stalwart Bruce DuBose excels at roles in which self-absorption can be easily confused for intensity. Onstage, he’s often as serenely soporific as one of his voiceovers for KERA Channel 13 or a truck company, and veteran theatergoers have grown so accustomed to his rich-throated narcotic stylings, they forget that the role can be played in a way not dependent on Nyquil chic. Imagine our surprise when we discovered what has been a widely known phenomenon in the Dallas theater scene for quite a while–DuBose’s tendency to pitch major, lung-blasting hissy fits with little provocation. Late last year, we called DuBose at home–he’d given us the number a couple years ago–to invite him to lunch, with the expressed intent to nail down those rumors about the Undermain Theatre’s uncertain future. Straight out of the gate, DuBose’s voice was a self-righteous sneer (“We’re not interested in addressing rumors”), but it quickly gathered into a thunderhead tantrum of adolescent bohemian outrage. Why, he wanted to know, were we calling people at home? Because messages left at the Undermain office are not returned. We, in turn, asked why calls weren’t answered, and why press releases weren’t sent out to help us inform the public of the Undermain’s status. “I don’t consider the Observer press!” (get in line on that one, Bruce) was not the corker of the short conversation. That would have to be: “Why should we conform?!” The yelling made his sentences incomprehensible, so we had to hang up on him. The Undermain’s imminent displacement after 16 years of excellence is truly tragic, but to have one of its founders represent the company’s legacy with such petulance is confounding.

Recycled is more like a library than a bookstore these days. There’s no high-priced coffee bar or a section to purchase book accessories such as the Itty Bitty Booklight or stainless steel bookmarks. Instead, it smells like old books. That’s because every room, level, nook, cranny, and minute space is filled with tomes, novels, and volumes. Size and quantity, however, don’t make Recycled great. It’s the selection. This oasis on the Denton courthouse square is the main selling spot for students and professors at the University of North Texas and Texas Woman’s University. (Denton’s other bookstores concentrate on the more lucrative business of college texts.) This gives the selection more diverse and worldly flair than most used bookstores and makes it well worth the drive and an afternoon of browsing.

The Adventures of Jet, Baboon, The Baptist Generals, Budapest One, Captain Audio, Centro-matic, Chomsky, Corn Mo, Darlington, [DARYL], Todd Deatherage, The Deathray Davies, Dixie Witch, 41 Gorgeous Blocks, every band John Freeman is in, Fury III, The Hundred Inevitables, Last Beat Records, Legendary Crystal Chandelier, Lewis, Lift to Experience, Little Grizzly, Lo-Fi Chorus, The Lucky Pierres, Lucy Loves Schroeder, Mandarin, The New Year, The Paper Chase, Pleasant Grove, Pinkston, The Polyphonic Spree, Quality Park Records, Red Animal War, The Riverboat Gamblers, The Rocket Summer, Shells, Slobberbone, Stumptone, Sub Oslo, The Toadies, Union Camp, Vibrolux, When Babies Eat Pennies, Wiring Prank, Yeti. And there’s more where these came from.

God bless D. They tried. Really. You can tell they made a serious effort in this April’s issue, with its focus on the local music scene. Well, you can tell they made a serious effort thinking about doing a local music issue. Let’s put it this way: Any magazine that claims it’s going to prove why Dallas is better for music and musicians than Austin, then puts on its cover, as an example, Sara Hickman (a musician who has lived in Austin for years), is in way over its head. As for the rest of the issue, going into Deep Ellum one night a year does not count as local music coverage. Make it two nights, and then we’ll talk.

No, it’s not out yet, and God only knows when Interscope Records plans on releasing it, but Toadies Album No. 2, Stars Above/Hell Below, is finished, a mere six years after Rubberneck hit the shelves. Sure, it’s not like the band spent all of that time in the studio–Rubberneck didn’t even become a hit until almost two years later–but still. Maybe one day, they’ll look back on this and laugh. Nah, probably not.

Jaye Weiner, the mother and proprietor of this school, has recently moved into a new building to accommodate her success. She and a staff of 10 enthusiastic teachers help children ages 4 and up produce fantastic, creative objects d’art, often from recycled material. Sign up early because these classes fill up quickly.

The Dallas artist pulled a quasi-Triple Crown this year with simultaneous shows at three venues, not to mention his showing at New York’s Whitney Biennial. Jumping from photography to filmmaking and back again, he brought Circles and Squares (which was based on a fashion shoot for Neiman Marcus at the Lakewood Theatre) to Dunn and Brown Contemporary, contributed his films Moving Picture and Middletown (his piece in the Whitney) to the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth’s Natural Deceits, and staged a retrospective of his career at the Dallas Museum of Art called Nic Nicosia: Real Pictures, 1979-1999. While quantity doesn’t equal quality, each of Nicosia’s pieces thrills, saddens, brings a laugh, or is just a plain wonder to see.

Forbidden doesn’t claim it has Dallas’ largest collection of cult video for nothin’. Though it changed hands earlier this year from founder Jason Cohen (who leaves the store to run a same-monikered gallery around the corner) to Ben Moore (who’s in his early ’20s), the collection of 2,000 videos in genres ranging from Japanimation and cult to blacksploitation and fetishist stays intact, though some of the music and books have been pulled. We hope it’s to make room for more video, though we can’t imagine what else they might need.

OK, so the ex-Sooners and Cowboys coach isn’t really a DJ–he’s no Kidd Kraddick or Carter, no computer jockey playing the latest by Britney or Sting or some other disposable pop icon (hey, we love Sting as much as the next straight man, but we stopped caring around the time of “Russians”). And he’s not necessarily the host of “Football All the Way,” which airs during The Hardline’s 3 p.m.-7 p.m. time slot on The Ticket, the domain of Greg “The Hammer” Williams and Mike “The Old Grey Wolf” Rhyner. And, OK, it’s a 10-minute show. Got it. But it’s the best damned 10 minutes of radio this town’s heard in a very long time, at least since Gordon “Microphone Johnson” Keith asked Stars coach Ken Hitchcock which part of his last name was popular with the gay community. For 10 minutes every week, Switzer talks Cowboys and OU, stumbling down Memory Lane (and, on occasion, Amnesia Lane) like a pissed-off drunk at closing time; the man uses “damn” and “hell” and “crap” the way other people say “and” and “the” and “but.” Now that he’s no longer on the payroll, he’s free to dish on his old boss, Jerry “Crazy Sumbitch” Jones (that’s our appellation, by the way, not his), and his old team. And you can damned sure bet your ass he’ll say whatever the hell he wants about them damned good old days when the University of freakin’ Oklahoma used to beat the crap out of Nebraska. Want to get Barry going? Ask him why he’s not in the College Football Hall of Fame. Damned politics, that’s why, helldamncrap. Come back, Barry, all is forgiven. We miss you so damned much.

She whines. She carps. She’s half-wrong. Sometimes she’s almost impossible to read. But at least she gives a small hoot about what’s going on downtown, and with a little publicity blast this year, she’s even being noticed for it. Boyd, whose hit-counter reads more than 52,000 lately, is not the force she aspires to be in Dallas. She’s just not electable, and she’s too doctrinaire to make enough friends to attain any sort of power, but she is almost a perfect match for the Internet, that great democratizer and spreader of faint voices and long-shot causes.

Whether it’s vengeance on his former colleagues at WFAA Channel 8 or just being free of them, Channel 11 News anchor Tracy Rowlett has helped give his fellow teammates an edge the other locals sorely lack. Covering the school district, the cops, the controversy over sexually oriented businesses, the folks at KTVT clearly don’t have to worry about all the sacred cows and family-unfriendly troubles that keep News 8 in a constant state of flinch. They’ve come up with a heads-up, straight-on format that’s worth watching.

You say you believe in the Democratic process, in the right of an informed electorate selecting the most viable judicial candidates from the marketplace of lawyers who have distinguished themselves in their careers. You say voters are intelligent enough to make good choices, to select the most qualified candidate, unswayed by the politics of the moment or popular sentiment. Then you look at the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, gasp, and decide to rethink the whole thing. Yes, we are a law-and-order state that doesn’t cotton to coddling criminals. But our current crop of judges who man (and woman) the state’s highest court of criminal jurisdiction have little regard for legal precedent; they seem to be making up the law as they go along. They have little intellectual candlepower since they are notorious for affirming guilty verdicts even in cases where DNA evidence suggests innocence. Some of them even have questionable integrity: Witness new presiding Judge Sharon Keller, who rails against pornography at the same time she is the landlord of a titty bar in Dallas. These guys are the state’s court of last resort for our booming death penalty business. Even George W. deserves a better backstop.

We had no idea how much difference a name makes until Check changed its moniker to Union Camp. To be honest, we probably wouldn’t have given Check another chance, after 1998’s All Time Low proved to be a tease, featuring guest appearances by Slobberbone’s Brent Best, Legendary Crystal Chandelier’s Peter Schmidt, and Centro-matic’s Will Johnson, and, well, that’s about it. But as Union Camp, the band got another shot to win us over, and this year’s Fever and Pain (as well as its contribution to the Band-kits compilation) did just that, sounding like Brian Wilson sitting in with Creedence Clearwater Revival, or something like that. Southern rock that’s not embarrassing or offensive? That’s gotta be worth something.

The compact-disc manufacturing outfit run by former Leaning House Records honcho Mark Elliott and The New Year’s Bubba Kadane out of a storefront in Exposition Park will one day pry loose Sam Paulos and Crystal Clear Sound’s stranglehold on the local music scene. Count on it: Everyone involved with the company is too smart and talented for that not to happen. The only question is when. Already, the company has handled projects for the late, great Trance Syndicate Records, Two Ohm Hop, Quality Park Records, Last Beat Records, and the Butthole Surfers, as well as putting together CD-ROMs for numerous corporate and government clients. That sound you hear is Crystal Clear trying to come up with a counterattack. It might be too late.

A place where bands can rehearse and record, combined with a fully functioning record label, the Last Beat compound on Commerce Street has undergone major changes in the past few years, with outstanding results. The Toadies, Legendary Crystal Chandelier, The Deathray Davies, Chomsky, Captain Audio, Pinkston, and others all use the rehearsal facilities, and Baboon, The Polyphonic Spree, and many more have recorded in the studio, designed by renowned producer (Pink Floyd, etc.) Nick Griffiths. The label is one of the few in town that thinks like a major, with a roster (Pleasant Grove and Baboon, for starters) to match. You can bet Sam Paulos has driven by the Last Beat complex a few nights with Molotov cocktail in hand, just itching to put an end to it.

“Big” Al Dupree sings and plays the piano. Very well. From his low perch in front of a piano, Dupree’s soft jazz and gentle blues captivate the crowd at The Balcony Club an average of five nights a week, joined by eager Dallas musicians who want to play with the great one. Their eagerness is understandable–in his time, Dupree played with the likes of “T-Bone” Walker, Pee Wee Crayton, and Ike Turner. Dupree is a true Dallas native, born in 1923 and playing in clubs here off and on since he was 14. To hear his gentle, rasping voice and talented ivory ministrations is heaven for jazz fans and an eye-opener to how good the medium can be for the uninitiated. The comfortably small Balcony Club is an ideal place to see the man in action, a showcase not only for the music but a catch basin for the ambience stoked by Dupree’s appearances. Band members sip drinks and flirt at the bar until their solos. Regulars greet each other warmly, chat up Al and his band during break, and bask in the live soundtrack of their evening. Dates cuddle and speak softly, the music at a perfect ever-present but soft volume. Long live Al Dupree and his talented cohorts.

The new one, lit up by Der Mayor on New Year’s Eve, is pretty enough–a glossy neon vestige brought back to life in a downtown trying to breathe life into its concrete shells (lotsa lofts, but we’ll see if it makes a difference). But the original, sitting in a Farmers Market shed, is still a sight to behold, especially up close. The first time we saw it, we were shocked. It took us by surprise–we knew it was there, but it had slipped our minds–so we stood there for an extra moment or two, ogling this piece of local history. Aside from a little rust and ruin, it looked somehow more majestic in the shed than it had when flying atop downtown–you could touch it, and touch history. Whether it qualifies as “sculpture,” well, we’re not qualified to say. But it’s Dallas’ real art, with a capital “he.”

In January, a University Park man decided to do what no computer geek had done before: For one year, he would live his life online, his every movement–sleeping, eating, goofing off mostly–would be Webcast to a global audience 24-7. He would abstain from sex and travel (traveling was the hard part), never leaving his home, which was quickly labeled the dotcompound, and only venturing into his backyard for an occasional breath of fresh air. The Internet would satisfy all his needs. He would order food, furniture, and frivolity online in an attempt to prove that man can live by e-commerce alone. What seemed like an interesting social experiment quickly revealed itself as little more than a publicity stunt. Hordes of media types hungry for some millennial meaning stormed the dotcompound, interviewing the cyberbore 10 to 15 times a day. The mass exposure became its own phenomenon, driving hundreds of thousands to his Web site and turning him into one of the first global cyber-personalities, famous for nothing save a good gimmick. Which actually proves something after all: The virtual world isn’t much different from the physical world.

Are the guys in Section 8 the funniest? Depends on the show. A good audience can make the show come together as surely as a bad one can ruin it. The point is this: These guys are fast and ready to take what they’re handed. They’re crass; they have a crazy following. They have two weekly shows–Wednesdays at the Improv in Addison and Thursdays at Ozona on Greenville Avenue. But they do something that troupes can rarely do–pull young adults away from the TV screen or Deep Ellum bars and into a comedy club. Perhaps it’s because Section 8 is primed for that target–kids who love gross-out humor, understand pop culture references, and like to hear parodies of popular songs.

For several years now, Dick’s has been doing its part to promote local authors with book-signing parties that are really parties. No boring “readings,” no scholarly lectures allowed upstairs where the highly successful gatherings are held. Just lots of friendly mingling, munchies, cash bar, the opportunity to purchase the latest by a local writer and, most important, a good time.

Barnett graces After Dark on Cedar Springs with her vocal gifts and presence on Saturday and Sunday nights. Her loyal fans are much happier for it. This powerhouse knows when to belt out a song and when to keep her voice soft and whispery. She’s at her best when warbling jazzy, upbeat tunes. Somehow you can’t help but feel lighter on this planet when you listen to her sing. Check out her happy, breezy version of “Pennies from Heaven” to see what we mean.

The Nixons, Hellafied Funk Crew, Pimpadelic, and every band that plays at The Rock. Unfortunately, there’s even more where these came from.

There are other better-known and better-funded theater companies offering classes to children, but dollar-for-dollar the Richardson group offers the best value. The six-week sessions end with your children in professional and actually enjoyable productions. Most of the kids on stage appear to have learned how to act. The adult repertory actors perform the major roles, making the theatrical occasion a satisfying (as opposed to merely a pride-filled) moment.

While the Dallas Independent School District talks about splitting into three (we think they ought to use dynamite rather than a bureaucratic blueprint) to deal with their woes, it’s nice to cite an example of what is good within DISD. Stonewall Jackson Elementary School has received the exemplary school status on the state level, and the blue-ribbon school status on the national level. Their annual celebration of international cultures helps to teach inclusiveness at an early age in a city where ethnic clashes can create political headaches.

Yes, we’re pulling another cop-out, but come on, there are many damned fine galleries here, and our favorite changes with each new show. It would be fruitless to list one each here along with its respective virtues. Some good starting points include Pillsbury and Peters Fine Art, the McKinney Avenue Contemporary, Photographs Do Not Bend, Conduit Gallery, Barry Whistler Gallery, Dunn and Brown Contemporary, and Craighead-Green Gallery. Plus, it seems a new gallery is opening every few months in downtown and Expo Park alone. So get out and judge for yourselves.

Covering international beats is a cool but challenging gig, especially considering the void of interest in international relations endemic to the American public. Bringing compelling tales from or about foreign lands to the pages of local newspapers is a good vehicle to get people to shed their back yard mentality. Timothy O’Leary hopscotches the world in search of dramatic conflicts or radical change. In the last two years he’s filed stories from Ireland, Greece, and India. His coverage of the most recent Mexican presidential election, including an appealingly sheepish column regarding his botched prediction that Vicente Fox would lose, brought simple analysis of the attitude of the Mexican people as seen from the ground. His columns are admirably free of self-indulgence and written in a traditional, accessible style. Sure, it’s a good gig, traveling the world and filing an average of seven stories a year. But if done right, a good international columnist can bring to the readership a glimpse of life beyond U.S. borders, a sorely needed acknowledgement that Dallas is just a small part of a big world.

He hammered Bill Rojas and his overpriced posse of headquarters bureaucrats, then came up with what could be the scoop of the summer: sleazy back-scratching judges down at the civil courthouse. What’s cool about Shipp is that he’s so nice while he’s capping those knees. Rather than huff and puff himself up as a crusading investigator, like so many others in this market, he delivers the goods in an almost self-effacing tone. Good and humble. It’s a surprise he’s made it in TV news.

What? James Fantroy the best city council member? A man who was seemingly handpicked by the felonious Al “Big Daddy” Lipscomb to fill his seat? A man whose first business was operating a liquor store? A man who operated a security company without a license for years? Well, he’s new, and he hasn’t had a chance to screw up yet. That fact differentiates the 62-year-old Fantroy from his peers on the council. He remains a blank slate, unlike bumbling jester John Loza, sanctimonious vigilante Laura Miller, and clueless Alan Walne. Their preenings and snide broadsides fired around the horseshoe leave little choice but to give the new guy a pass and a pat on the back. Give him time–we’re pretty sure he’ll put his foot in it soon enough.

Many, many people are going to think this one definitely has to go to our recently departed short-timer school superintendent, Waldemar Rojas, if not for the unforgettable “tin-cup” episode, then for some other installment in his Bosnian-style public relations career in Dallas. But we get into a technical area. Strictly speaking, good gaffes can’t be done by major-league wackoids. Those aren’t gaffes; they’re symptoms. A really good political gaffe has to be a case of pure-D, wrong-way, dumb-head, boy-oh-boy stepping-in-it by people who really shoulda known better. For that, the big Year 2001 Ark of the Holy-Moley Best Political Gaffe of the Year Award definitely goes to Dallas Mayor Ron (Pothole) Kirk and fellow city councilonians Maxine (Doctor-Doctor) Thornton-Reese, Don (Down) Hill, Lois (What a) Finkelman, Barbara (I hate Laura) Mallory-Caraway, Herb (Who?) Walne, and Mary (Very) Poss for voting not to use a $50,000 gift from ExxonMobil Corp. to repair a wading pool in an impoverished neighborhood. Later, of course, they all ate big-time crow (ummm, yummy!) and voted to fix the pools, but only after having waltzed themselves deep into some shoe-staining-type political shit. Note to selves: “Supposed to kiss babies, not kiss them off.”

The entire 20th century was brought under microscopic scrutiny in this North American premiere courtesy of the Dallas Theater Center and director Preston Lane, who made a revelatory debut as a main-season captain after he had previously worked at the perennial task of resweetening DTC’s hard-candy fave A Christmas Carol. We’ve grown so accustomed to the computer-created special effects provided by weather-driven disaster flicks like A Perfect Storm that we forget their major dramatic thrust is entrapment, forced intimacy, unlikely alliances, major decisions made in stressfully minor allotments of time–in other words, the métier of theatrical tension. Inexpressible Island was the fictionalized true account of a group of British explorers in 1912 sailing to the South Pole. They didn’t reach their goal, but were instead sequestered for months inside a carved-out ice cave, bickering over raisins and seal fat and the English proprieties that were a clumsy fit inside this icy hell. The ruling officers attempted to keep order through various disciplinary mind games and the academic lectures of a comrade too learned on contemporary art and history and literature for everyone’s good. The men are driven almost to mutiny by the impudent disordering of faith and logic and traditional narrative of which he earnestly speaks. With screeching winds, a slick and steep stage level, and a backdrop of crazily kaleidoscopic night stars, Inexpressible Island kept everyone–actors and audience–unsteady and unsettled. Sadly, after making such a strong mainstage directorial impression, Lane is heading to North Carolina in 2001 to open his own theater.