The Stranger

To enjoy Tooth Fairy—a movie about ice hockey, the bureaucracy of fantasy, and not letting go of your stupid dreams—as much as I did, you should probably do a couple of things: (1) Fall deeply in love with Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson's doofy-handsome, elastic face. And (2) watch BBC's The Office and Extras in their entirety, then listen to every episode of the Ricky Gervais podcast until the only thing you love more than Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson's doofy-handsome, elastic face is Stephen "Goggle-Eyed Freak" Merchant's stork legs and Britishy wit. Tooth Fairy is a buddy comedy wrapped in a corny child's turd. Ignore the turd part. (See Movie Times: thestranger .com/film.) by Lindy West

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In this slow movie, a young plainclothes detective (Dragos Bucur) spends much of his time watching three teenagers smoke marijuana in a yard enclosed by a kindergarten. If he is not doing this, he is at the office dealing with the most boring coworkers in the universe. If he is not doing this, he is eating lumpy food in his plain apartment. The detective also has a plain-looking wife. And his clothes, like his assignments, are unimpressive. Yet all of this adds up to a great and deeply philosophical comedy that does not fill your belly with laughter but raises a slim smile on your lips. (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.) by Charles Mudede

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Tim Rollins is the conceptual artist who had this concept: Through art, kids who were totally marginalized in the South Bronx would gain not only a place in the world but knowledge, too—and it worked. He started teaching art in a public junior high there in 1981, the kids eventually named themselves Kids of Survival, and they took the art world by storm in the late-'80s and early '90s. This survey—16 paintings and two sculptures; I only wish there were more—is a chance to see why. Their art is not heartwarming and it is not kidsy. It is proud, elegant, defiant, and literary. (Frye Art Museum, 704 Terry Ave, 622-9250. 10 am–5 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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Po Dog is not for everyone—most notably those folks who balk at paying more than five bucks for a frickin' hot dog. But cradled in their wonderfully hearty Macrina buns and subjected to a variety of imaginative overhauls, Po Dog's dogs (Hebrew National for carnivores, Field Roast for herbivores) are closer to, say, a Honey Hole sandwich than a ballpark frank. Also, the place is gorgeous, so eat in, and make sure to try the perfectly delicious fries. (Po Dog, 1009 E Union St, 325-6055. 11 am–midnight.) by David Schmader

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Ken Kesey's delirious novel plus Paul Newman's butch yet sensitive filmmaking equals a paean to tough individualism worthy of the ancient Greeks. The Stamper clan, fiercely loyal to themselves and fiercely suspicious of outsiders (including a long-lost "mommy- sissypants" Stamper brother), are Oregon loggers, as tough and knotty as the forests they cut down. They scrap with the unions, they scrap with the townspeople, and they scrap with each other in epic, grinding battles. (Henry Fonda as the wry, nail-spitting Stamper patriarch is awe-inspiring.) The film's final shot, of Newman casually opening a beer on a tugboat after lashing a severed arm to the mainmast, its stiff little fingers flipping off the entire town, is the finest fuck you/beau geste in film, literature, or life. Ain't that America? It gets me every time. (Grand Illusion, 1403 NE 50th St, 523-3935. 8 pm, $8.) by Brendan Kiley

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