The Stranger

Ben Beres's first big show of tiny-print, text-based etchings at Davidson Galleries only takes up half the gallery, but it would be a four-floor retrospective if Beres didn't work in near-microscopic scale. His plates are shaped, not rectangular, and each print is a singular color (mixed, not bottled) covered in a scrawl of words and teensy images. At the opening, Beres worked the room, proselytizing: "Prints are amazing. More people should be doing prints." His works spoke the same thing, even louder. (Davidson Galleries, 313 Occidental Ave S, 624-1324. 10 am–5:30 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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Partman Parthorse's latest snide, punk-rock sneerfest is a song that rattles off—then proceeds to shit-talk—damn near every band in Seattle ("Dutchess and the Duke make me wanna puke... Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band/More like Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Bland"). It concludes in the chorus: "I don't know where they're coming from/But I sure know where they've been/And I know where they're going/Straight to the dollar bin." From any other band, "Emerald City Dollar Bin" might constitute serious beef, but from the infinitely flip and un-fucking-fadeable PMPH, it's all in good fun. (Funhouse, 206 Fifth Ave N, 374-8400. 9 pm, $8, 21+.) by Eric Grandy

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Antony Hegarty has an arresting voice—haunted; andro-gynous; slightly lisping; able to flit from a low, resonant purr to a weightless, trembling vibrato in one perfectly controlled breath. With Antony and the Johnsons, Hegarty opens that voice and lets it rain down over his own spare piano and his band's adventurous orchestral instrumentation—singing songs about life, death, and all the confusions in between. Their latest album, The Crying Light, is a compact and affecting symphony. Hegarty and company's live performances are just as stunning. (Moore Theatre, 1932 Second Ave, 467-5510. 8 pm, $27.50, all ages.) by Eric Grandy

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If the only 3-D you know is the cardboard-glasses-with-red-and-green-cellophane-lenses kind, you're in for a shock. Without 3-D technology, Coraline would be a creepy stop-motion animated film with vampire-bat Scottie dogs, malevolent gourds, and a circus of prescient kangaroo rats. But in 3-D, Coraline gains a depth and breadth like you've never seen. Other 3-D movies try to jump out of the screen and make you squeal and leap in your seat; Coraline expands to fill the theater and swallows you whole. (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.) by Paul Constant

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Written by twentysomething New York playwright Elizabeth Meriwether, The Mistakes Madeline Made is a quirky confection that accumulates into something strange and beautiful. The protagonist works as a personal assistant to a brittle perfectionist, spends her evenings searching for casual sex, and then stops bathing, much to the rest of the characters' olfactory horror. All the people involved, from the cast to the costumer, do their jobs with wit and skill. The actors in particular attain a harmonious style that brings the whole endeavor to oddly compelling life. (Washington Ensemble Theatre, 608 19th Ave E, www.brownpapertickets.com. 8 pm, $15. Through March 16.) DAVID SCHMADER

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This cloud is made of tough white plastic, not misty condensation, but the way it conducts light is just as elusive. From a little distance and at a certain angle, the 27-foot-long, 8-foot-high stack of cut panels suspended from the ceiling—sliced in half so you can walk into it—looks like a wet, glistening ice floe breaking into pieces. Seen up close, it becomes the model for a glowing, postmodern building in heaven. At night, it coalesces into a pool of shadowy bones. Constantly, it glows and changes. (Suyama Space, 2324 Second Ave, 256-0809. 9 am–5 pm, free.) by Jen Graves

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