The Stranger

Presumably to cleanse the palate before a raft of films from around the world arrives, SIFF Cinema is spending the week screening old greats—including, tonight, The Apartment, Billy Wilder's 1960 masterpiece about an insurance company employee constantly having to vacate his New York City apartment so high-class executives can use it to carry on affairs with misty-eyed beauties. It's in black and white and the textures are gorgeous—everything (even Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine) looks to be made of marzipan, pewter, light boxes, and chalk. (SIFF Cinema, 321 Mercer St, 633-7151. 7:30 pm, $10.) by Christopher Frizzelle

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I've been longing to visit Ballard's "new experiment in premium hamburgers" since Bethany Jean Clement sang its praises in these pages two weeks ago (and I'm a vegetarian). "These are exceptionally good burgers... It's your choice of eight or so different kinds of organic, ground-on-site meat; 15 different cheeses; 15 different house-made sauces; and a half-dozen more toppers (maple bacon, caramelized onions). Milkshakes, no-lumps-style, are apportioned in 400mL lab glassware. Then there are fries, twisty fries, sweet-potato fries, tater tots...." (Lunchbox Laboratory, 7302 15th Ave NW, 706-3092. 11 am–8 pm.) by David Schmader

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During an unspecified summer in the early 1980s, two pale British boys with marginally fucked-up home lives set out to make a sequel to Rambo: First Blood. Lee, the director, is a lonely hellion who conscripts Will—a dreamy, shy kid whose family religion prohibits pretty much everything—to be his lackey and stuntman. Together, they are the most resourceful, reckless, and fraught film duo since Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski. Everything about Son of Rambow, including its misspelled title, is an exercise in adorable. (See movie times for details.) by Brendan Kiley

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Tonight's performance of David Schmader's critically acclaimed live commentary on the critically slammed Showgirls is brought to you by local do-gooders Noise for the Needy, a nonprofit that raises money for a new charity each year. Tonight's proceeds go to Urban Rest Stop, which provides free, clean, and safe washing-up facilities for homeless folks. So any bad karma you accrue tonight while ridiculing Elizabeth Berkley's horrific attempts at acting will be canceled out, since the cost of admission goes to a good cause. (Triple Door, 216 Union St, 838-4333. 7:30 pm, $12, all ages.) by Megan Seling

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You are forgiven for not knowing who Paul Baribeau is—I don't think the Midwestern singer/songwriter has ever played a venue in Seattle that wasn't a house. His songs are so minimal and sweet and serious that they slide right under any sort of radar, like a stealth bomber loaded with lyrics about brown-haired girls and 10 things to do before you die. Request his cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Into the Fire," a song he makes better by shouting it over his acoustic guitar. (Dearborn on Woodland, 4131 Woodland Park Ave N, www.myspace.com/dearbornhouse. 8 pm, donations for touring bands, all ages.) ARI SPOOL by Ari Spool

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Bobby Hutcherson was born in 1941, made his debut on Blue Note as a bandleader in 1965, and is the second most famous vibraphonist in jazz history (Milt Jackson is in first place). Hutcherson has played with almost all of the great figures of his time—Jackie McLean, Herbie Hancock, and, of course, the genius above all geniuses, Eric Dolphy. Those who know Dolphy's Out to Lunch know that Hutcherson is an American giant. (Jazz Alley, 2033 Sixth Ave, 441-9729. 7:30 and 9:30 pm, $27.50, all ages. Through Sun May 18.) by Charles Mudede

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