The Stranger

Some people complained that my review of Carlos Reygadas's amazing, otherworldly, cosmic, phenomenal (even "funnanimal"—James Joyce's word) Silent Light failed to say what the movie is about. Fine. Here's the plot: A married, middle-aged farmer and father in a German-speaking Mennonite community in northern Mexico is having an affair with a slightly younger and vigorous woman. The farmer wants to end the affair and be faithful to his wife, but his love for his mistress surpasses his love for his wife. That is the whole story. Are you happy now? (Northwest Film Forum, 1515 12th Ave, 829-7863. 9:30 pm, $9.) by Charles Mudede

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Titus Kaphar starts by remaking the old oil paintings he intends to destroy. Then he begins cutting and manipulating. Parts are cut out, left only as silhouettes, and other parts are barely attached, dangling. It's unsettling, a little like considering that the skin can be removed from a face. But the identity in question is American history. Kaphar takes it apart and puts it back together from his perspective as an artist and a black man. What could be a better companion to the precolonial-to-19th-century exhibition Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness down the hall? That show is visiting from Yale—Kaphar's alma mater. (Seattle Art Museum, 1300 First Ave, 625-8900. 10 am–5 pm, $15 suggested.) by Jen Graves

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Duplicity is not a masterpiece—it drags at times, its corporate landscape is ponderously gray, plus, you know, Julia Robertzzzzzzzzzzzz—but parts of it (dialogue, Clive Owen's chest hair) are masterful. The corporate-espionage comedy concerns a pair of former-spies-in-luv (Roberts and Owen) who concoct a scheme to grift two pharmaceutical giants out of millions. The best part of Duplicity is the opening credits, in which rival CEOs, played by giants of character Paul Giamatti and Tom Wilkinson, brawl in super-slow-motion on a tarmac. It's fucking awesome. Who needs pretty people? (See Movie Times: thestranger.com/film.) by Lindy West

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Inside the Hedreen Gallery are two rows of sewn curtains, titled Hairdye and Sandcastle Turtle. One side of the curtains sports bright and distinct patterns; the other side, fronting the bank of windows to the street, is spotty and stainy. Walking between them feels like interrupting something intimate—but what? The only way to find out more is across town next week at On the Boards, where Wynne Greenwood presents the performance that relates to this "set," a new piece called Sister Taking Nap. (Hedreen Gallery, 901 12th Ave, 296-2244, 1:30–6 pm, free; On the Boards, 100 W Roy St, 217-9888, April 15–19, 8 pm, $18.) by Jen Graves

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Centerfolds, Seattle's one and only strip club for women (which hardly anyone even knows about), is celebrating its 17-year anniversary. Seventeen years! Every Friday and Saturday night, beefcakey guys strip, pole dance, and slap their own asses for a giddy, giggling room of women with sweaty, crumpled dollar bills in their even sweatier hands. A perfect no-boys-allowed place, the 'Fold is rarely crowded. This is not for a lack of girls who want some shiny man-satin right up in their grills, but because Centerfolds is way the hell out in Ballard/Crown Hill. If it were downtown, it'd be a whole different, uh, ball game. (Centerfolds, 8517 15th Ave NW, 783-8534. 8 pm–2:30 am, $15, 18+. No alcohol.) by Kelly O

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Max Tundra (aka British solo musician Ben Jacobs) was easily the most astounding live performer I saw in a long weekend of way too many shows at SXSW. Onstage, he sings like a pitch-perfect Auto Tune–free R&B crooner, fluidly improvises on keys and guitar, jumping from one keyboard to another to melodica to glockenspiel to thumb piano and back, and jerks and flings his body around spasmodically, always landing just on time over his own off-kilter backing beats, pausing to dole out droll banter between songs. With Junior Boys. (Neumos, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $15, all ages.) by Eric Grandy

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