Florida Grand Opera
This minor Puccini one-act, often overlooked, stole the show from the more famous I Pagliacci in a Florida Grand Opera double-header. It's difficult to make a bunch of identical nuns look compelling, but director Sandra Pocceschi asserted some cagey blocking to let us know who was whom, and as this brief tale of regret and injustice played out on FGO's stunning convent set — which featured a huge, weeping Virgin Mary looming like a monster, or a god — soprano Kelly Kaduce's voice pierced the auditorium like a big, blue laser and sold the opera as the masterpiece that few believe it to be.
Once dubbed "Father Oprah" by his devout Catholic followers, Alberto Cutié's handsome face and sweet Spanish words reached millions of homes in more than 20 countries via television, radio, books, and a syndicated newspaper column wherein he doled out relationship advice. Ah, the irony. His faithful parishioners took the counsel of a man who committed to a vow of celibacy, only to learn he knew quite a bit about intimacy. After all, he deceived millions of men and women into thinking his steady was religion, when all along it was really a chick named Ruhama Canellis. At least he eventually made an honest woman out of her. In May, here's what he had to say in an interview with Univision's Teresa Rodriguez after photos of the two snuggling in the sand surfaced:Teresa Rodriguez: You're a public figure, right? What were you thinking showing such public displays of affection — kissing her, touching her? Weren't you afraid someone would discover your secret sooner or later? Padre Alberto: I will tell you the truth. This will sound really ironic and a bit strange, but I knew God was watching.Yes, Father, G-d was watching. And unfortunately for you, so were the paparazzi.
There are two words you don't want to hear at a film festival: technical and difficulties. But when the Borscht Film Festival was delayed, the Gusman audience of more than 1,500 people happily waited two hours while a new projector was fetched from Hialeah. Local artists in the audience entertained with impromptu performances. Afrobeta and Sirens & Sealions played a few ditties, while Jessica Gross and Daniel Reskin brought the laughs. It was the kind of collaborative spirit that makes you want to high-five the person seated next to you. The serendipitous showcase of 305 talent was the perfect kickoff for a film festival started by a couple of New World kids determined to find fertile soil for filmmaking right here in Miami. They've been nurturing local film talent since 2005. But in 2009, the Borsht Film Festival finally emerged from the underground. Operating with its first actual budget, the festival moved from the understated Tower Theater in Little Havana to the grand, faux-starry-skied Gusman Center in downtown Miami. The one-night-only screenings drew crowds that could make an international film festival jealous. Folks even tried to buy the free tickets in order to secure a seat. With the new projector up and running, the crowd enjoyed "Borscht Selects," short films submitted by Miami filmmakers under the age of 30, and "CCCV Stories," films commissioned by BFF and cofinanced by the Miami World Cinema Center. Standouts included "Velvet," a Miami New Wave short set in the Design District, a flaneur's stroll through Liberty City in "Day N Night Out," and a documentary about the Miami Circle. We're such fans, we even gave BFF a New Times Mastermind genius grant. It's our way of shouting, "Do it again!"
In 1993, Phil Davis performed the judicial equivalent of a David Blaine extreme magic act. This year, all the card tricks in the world couldn't save him. Back in the early '90s, Davis, then a sitting Miami-Dade judge, had been swept up in a massive FBI sting called Operation Court Broom. The feds recorded Davis on tape accepting a $20,000 bribe from a lawyer. But Davis shimmied out of a conviction in '93 with a Meryl Streep-worthy performance on the stand. Weeping openly, Davis admitted to snorting cocaine in his chambers and stammered, "I could have been someone!" Jurors bought it, and he walked. But this year, Davis found himself back in court. And this time, karma proved to be a sweet, sweet bitch. Four years after walking on the corruption charges, Davis had started a nonprofit called Miami-Dade Residential College. The smooth-talking disbarred lawyer glad-handed his way into thousands of dollars in county grants for the program, which was supposed to help ex-cons learn real-world skills. Instead, it helped one con in particular — Davis himself — pad his wallet. Prosecutors showed that Davis and his partner inflated salaries, invented expenses, and stole more than $80,000 in taxpayer cash. On the stand in January, Davis broke down again. Tears flowed onto his prison jumpsuit. This time, there was no magic — only justice. Davis got 20 years. Good riddance.
You know, we didn't always have Snooki and various Kardashians shooting brain-cell-killing lasers out of their otherwise empty heads at us through the television box. A long time ago, people actually went to theaters and watched these things called films. You probably wouldn't know it by looking at the slate of filming permits filed in Miami-Dade this past year, but it's true. They were these weird things: 70 minutes to three hours, depending on how ballsy the director was feeling. Usually with plots — you know, a beginning, middle, and end. Characters learned things, changed as human beings. In the best ones, maybe the audience did too. I Love You Phillip Morris is one of those films. Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor star in it (maybe your grandparents have heard of them). They play two gay lovers who meet in prison, and then some high jinks ensue in Miami. Wide release of the film has been held up in America because of that whole two-gay-lovers thing. Apparently, this country cannot handle the sight of Jim Carrey wearing a tacky Versace-like outfit while walking around South Beach with a seminaked male lover and then offering him a daiquiri poolside. If the film opens in more theaters, we highly recommend you take your eyes off Snooki's and Kim's buns and see it.
Recently, the idea of moving up the last-call time in clubland has gathered steam. But we don't think the draconian measure is a good way to dampen the spirits. Move the time up to 3 a.m., and tons of patrons will cozy up to the bar for a last-hurrah booze binge beginning at 2:30. Then they'll end up out in the street at the same time, only earlier, fighting for cabs or, worse yet, climbing behind the wheel. But if city officials have to do something to score political points, here's a case we'd like to make: Exhibit 1: Great Britain recently introduced 24-hour liquor licenses and has seen violent crimes involving alcohol actually fall 21 percent. Exhibit 2: Seattle is contemplating doing away with its 2 a.m. last call in favor of later, staggered closing times. We like that second option. Cops can concentrate on different club areas as they let out, and people who need cabs will find them more easily. Is that a last call we hear?
Every episode begins the same. A dead body. Forensics on the scene. And CSI Lt. Horatio "H" Caine, played by superserious, melodramatic David Caruso getting debriefed on the situation. Caine looks at the body, assesses the situation, slowly and deliberately puts on his sunglasses, and blurts out a really bad pun such as "Looks like this guy was taken to the cleaners." Cue Roger Daltrey screaming, "Yeah!" as The Who belts out "Won't Get Fooled Again" during the opening credits, and you have CSI: Miami. The popular CBS program follows Caine and his Miami-based forensics team as they solve murder cases throughout the Magic City using state-of-the-art science and Horatio's undaunted instincts. Each episode does its best to capture the city's diverse ethnic culture while seemingly advertising the 305 as a town where one can play hard and sometimes die hard. Like most shows set in Miami, it's not actually shot in Miami, with buildings and canals in Long Beach and Los Angeles doubling as South Beach scenery. And like most shows set in Miami, each episode takes place in a backdrop of tropical beauty and beautiful people. So what if it's not really Miami. The setting is Miami. And every Monday night, the city looks beautiful and dangerous — as it should. Detective: You know, H, this show is shot mostly in California. Horatio: California, you say? Well, I guess you can't spell SoBe [puts on sunglasses]... without la-la."Yeaaaaah!
We've all seen some things in this city — dirty, nasty, criminal, soul-crushing things. Most of us, with our trademarked 305 cynicism, tend to ignore them. But an anonymous man, going by the Internet handle of DC Vision, is paying attention. In 2007, he began taking photographs of the prostitutes and drug addicts who line the streets of downtown Miami. They wind up on his Tumblr, titled the Street. The site's header ominously reminds us: "This is an exploration of other people's lives. Look around you, there are streets like this in every town. They are all connected." Recently, he began posting mug shots and arrest info for some of the girls he has photographed. Sadly, many of them wind up right back on the streets. The effect is haunting, especially when much of the blatant activity takes place in broad daylight and most of the subjects wear the marks of hard lives on their faces. Some people might see it as exploitation, but it's a chilling reminder that the city has a long way to go to clean up its streets and that we should be thankful our lives don't resemble the images in these photos.
When the Miami Dolphins made Chad Henne the 57th overall pick in the 2008 NFL Draft, no one was really sure what the team was getting. (This has been the case with any quarterback drafted or signed since Dan Marino retired in 1999.) Hailing from the University of Michigan, Henne was a big kid with four-year starter experience, a bazooka for an arm, and Mr. Spock's immutable disposition. He seemed to embrace the challenge of being a future franchise quarterback. This could mean that Chad Henne is, in fact, a robot from the '50s. But it could also very well mean Henne is the long-sought franchise savior. Still, the Chad Henne Era wasn't supposed to begin until 2010. But that plan was scrapped during week three of the 2009 season when San Diego Chargers linebacker Kevin Burnett crushed starter Chad Pennington's shoulder into peanut brittle after a vicious hit, knocking Pennington out for the season. Henne came in and finished the game with 92 yards passing, no touchdowns, and one pick-six. But because robots are devoid of memory and shame, Henne bounced back with big wins in his next two starts, against the Bills and in front of a national audience on Monday Night Football against the Jets, where he threw for 241 yards and two TDs — including a 53-yard strike to Ted Ginn Jr. Henne also proved he could hang with the likes of Tom Brady, as he did when he led the Fins to their week 13 come-from-behind win against the Patriots. Even with a mediocre receiving corps, Henne had a fine first season. He finished the year with 12 TDs and a respectable 75.2 QB rating. Now it's all about finding the Robot some weapons. Once he gets a playmaker or two to pitch in, it will be all systems go. The Dolphins appear to be in excellent shape for the next decade at the QB position. Not bad for the 57th overall pick.
Ignacio Rodriguez's title for South Florida's chronically anonymous pro-soccer team is a bit oxymoronic — like being a real estate agent to the homeless, or head of the Israeli shellfish harvesters' union. Attendance at the team's tin-bleachered Lockhart Stadium in Fort Lauderdale rarely exceeds the single-digit thousands, and the front office has taken to frequent gimmicks in order to stave off extinction: They signed elderly one-named former fútbol demigod Romário and then two recently defected Cuban phenoms, and the players volunteered to shave their heads if fans showed up. But the bleachers remained nearly empty. Through all of these thwarted shenanigans, Rodriguez has remained friendly, attentive, and upbeat — the kind of flack who literally won't let us off the phone until we promise to show up at either media day or the season opener. Given that most sports flacks act like they're guarding a stable of 25 popes rather than a bunch of dudes who get sweaty on Sundays, its awfully refreshing to deal with a PR shield eager to make even the most audacious press requests happen, and always prefers a sit-down lunch to an email exchange.

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®