For about 145 years, the world has had both the medium of photography and the service of the Red Cross. Now there's a traveling exhibition that documents both, and it's making a stop at Seattle City Hall. There are more than 80 images, taken during wartime, shot mainly by anonymous photographers, and with captions instead of titles. Together, they form a portrait of war since the dawn of photography. (City Hall Gallery, 600 Fourth Ave, 684-7171. Gallery open 7 am-6 pm, free. Reception on June 17 6 pm..) JEN GRAVES

In the age of YouTube, it boggles the mind to think that people used to shove change into a jukebox and stand around watching a 16 mm precursor to the music video. But Scopitones—which, when they launched in the U.S., were stocked exclusively with obscure French performers—were a smash in the '60s, their garish Technicolor aesthetics achieving cultural immortality in Susan Sontag's "Notes on 'Camp.'" The fascinating, eccentric archivist Dennis Nyback will introduce selections from his personal collection. (Grand Illusion, 1403 NE 50th St, 523-3925. 7 and 9 pm, $5–$8.) ANNIE WAGNER

Martin Dosh is a multi-instrumentalist for esteemed Bay Area label anticon. On records like his latest, Wolves and Wishes, Dosh combines basement-muffled drum breaks, tinkling xylophone, soft Fender Rhodes piano, occasional vocal collaborators, and subtle studio effects to create songs that range from smart, jazzy hiphop instrumentals to twee electronica to headlong percussive workouts. On stage, Dosh surrounds himself with drums, keys, and xylophone to re-create his studio sound with the help of some trusty looping pedals. With overwhelming emo marching band Anathallo and locals Wesafari. (Nectar, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 9 pm, $10, 21+.)

Almost certainly the best movie in SIFF 2008, Abdellatif Kechiche's follow-up to Games of Love & Chance burrows into a tight-knit Tunisian immigrant community in a small port town in the south of France. From 61-year-old Slimane, thrown against his will into a twilight career change, to his sort-of stepdaughter Rym, who's gorgeous and assertive enough to charm elderly musicians and inebriated bureaucrats alike, the characters are fantastic. Kechiche is one of SIFF's "Emerging Masters," but at this point? He's done emerging. He's a goddamn butterfly. (Egyptian Theatre, 801 E Pine St, www.thestranger.com/siff. 6 pm, $11.)

Chicago's Russian Circles have always experimented with music's darker side. On Enter, the trio crafted metal-tinged, moody instrumentals, but managed to break the spell for few a moments of subtle beauty. On their new record, Station, the band have abandoned all hope. There's very little clearing in these threatening skies—everything is more aggressive, more sinister. The fearless will be up front, praising the band with a slow, heavy headbang. (Neumo's, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $10, all ages.)

Still Orangutans is the Brazilian Slacker. In one 81-minute shot, the camera wanders around a hot city, following weird people: A little kid threatens a cashier's life (funnier than it sounds), a lesbian fights with a drunk Santa, two wasters drink perfume and pass out, a crazed writer harries an old man on the sidewalk, and so on. The movie suffers from a soft midsection, but begins with the sad beauty of a dead woman on a subway and ends with an eloping couple and a hand grenade. (Pacific Place, 600 Pine St, www.thestranger.com/siff. 9 pm, $11.)

Good Medicine is Geologic, Gabriel Teodros, Khingz, and Macklemore. Geologic is the rapper for Blue Scholars; Teodros and Khingz were Abyssinian Creole; and Macklemore is Macklemore. Geologic is about Marxism; Teodros is about feminism; Khingz is about South Seattle; Macklemore is about the new postracial society. All four make very good medicine for the current state of Seattle's hiphop mind. Hosted by RA Scion of Common Market. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $8, all ages.)

Bruce LaBruce may not have made the first gay zombie film, but he's certainly made the most substantial one. Built around the life and memories of the titular alterna-zombie, Otto; or, Up with Dead People is a compelling mishmash of zombie drama, art-house pretension, queer theory, AIDS allegory, vegetarian treatise, hardcore porn, faux documentary, and a good, old-fashioned homosexual blood feast. It's insanely inventive and, for the most part, it works. (Director scheduled to attend.) (Egyptian Theatre, 801 E Pine St, www.thestranger.com/siff. Midnight, $8.)

You never know what you're going to find in the Belltown gallery Suyama Space, which hosts site-specific commissions all year round. That's what makes opening night so great. This time, Philadelphia-based artists Carolyn Healy and John Phillips have made an installation using cables, ropes, and pulleys along with video and sound, all of which interact with the light—both natural and projected—in the unusually gorgeous room. One other plus at this opening: Because of gallery hours and the summer season, it's the only time you can see art at sunset. (Suyama Space, 2324 Second Ave, 256-0809. 5–8 pm, free.)

Last month, women artists invented their own biologies at Punch Gallery. This month, four men ride the time-space-object continuum at SOIL in a group show about the invention not of bodies but of environments. The lineup is unexpected, pairing Jonathan Hudak's scattered scenes with Eric Elliott's exaggeratedly condensed paintings and Matt Browning's loose installation "drawings" (that incorporate bricks, metal, quilted fabric, fur, tea strainers, and keyboard key sensors) with Whiting Tennis's solid, personified plywood sculptures. (SOIL, 112 Third Ave S, 264-8061. 6–9 pm, free.)

Radio Slave is the higher-profile alias of British DJ/producer Matt Edwards, who is also one-half of Quiet Village. The shrewd double-booking means lower overhead for Nectar, but should also make for a stellar show, contrasting Radio Slave's minimalist remixes and populist reedits against Quiet Village's hazy disco-touched ambiences, which sound like club music as heard from outside the club, muffled and floating on some warm breeze. With Nordic Soul. (Nectar, 412 N 36th St, 632-2020. 9 pm, $10, 21+.)

In the 1980s, William Gibson allegedly coined the term "cyberspace," which nobody besides your parents has used in conversation for at least five years. But, as Stranger critic Steven Shaviro pointed out in a March 2003 review of Pattern Recognition, Gibson is probably the first writer to use "Google" as a verb. In his newest thriller, Spook Country, he's one of the first to realistically capture the antigovernment techno-paranoia of the first decade of the new millennium. Most sci-fi authors are still trying to catch up to Gibson, and after 30 years, none of them has come close. (University Book Store, 4326 University Way NE, 634-3400. 7 pm, free.)

Tarsem Singh's long-gestating follow-up to his painfully flawed—but gorgeous—serial-killer flick The Cell is a children's story about love, heartache, suicide, and the gullibility of kids. Taking major cues from The Princess Bride, it never quite jells on a narrative level—in fact, it's a borderline disaster. But visually, it's one of the most imaginative and playful movies you will ever see. As a filmmaker, Singh is half-baked; as a stylist, he's truly one of the greats. (See movie times, www.thestranger.com, for details.)

Joan of Arc mastermind Tim Kinsella has been one of the most prodigious and quietly influential figures in emo/indie/post-what-have-you for two decades, since his teen years in the posthumously revered Cap'n Jazz. Since then, he's recorded more than a dozen records with Joan of Arc and other bands, subtly shifting shapes but always retaining a singular and impressive voice, his intricately winding lyrics every bit as distinctive as his cracked yet tuneful howl. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $10, all ages.)

The audience sits in the Olympic Sculpture Park, wearing headphones, listening to two invisible men talk out a small drama somewhere in the landscape. The men are best friends and social outcasts, played by two Australian actors with real-life intellectual disabilities. They are also drug dealers—one of them is trying to arrange a score with two arrogant, rich executives while the other sinks into an emotional crisis that threatens to ruin the deal. Watching one humble man's honesty frustrate the rich and contemptuous feels quietly, oddly triumphant. Presented by On the Boards. (Olympic Sculpture Park, 2901 Western Ave, www.ontheboards.org. 4 and 7 pm, $24. May 29–June 1.)

The Wilders play hard country, from old-time string-band tunes and barroom honky tonk to raucous gospel, with a good mix of originals and covers (Roy Acuff, Hank Williams, Roger Miller, et al.). And they live up to their name: Their shows are super- energetic and rowdy, with rollicking banjo, fiddle, guitar, stand-up bass, and, best of all, Dobro. There will be plenty of dancing by the band and the crowd; you'll leave this show euphoric, exhausted, and possibly covered in beer. (Tractor Tavern, 5213 Ballard Ave NW, 789-3599. 9 pm, $12 adv/$15 DOS, 21+.)

It's easy for people who don't attend the festival to dismiss SIFF as a succession of dour Polish films about the Holocaust, but haters don't realize the festival's breadth of genre and depth of quality. Case in point: Mirageman, a Chilean superhero film about one lonely master of unarmed combat (Marko Zaror) who takes to the streets in a gaudy outfit to fight crime. The film is constructed from midnight-movie implausibilities, but Zaror's kung fu is strong, and the movie zips to greatness at 80 (occasionally very bizarre) minutes. (Egyptian Theatre, 801 E Pine St, www.thestranger.com/siff. Midnight, $8.)

DJ Gajamagic (Mark Gajadhar from the Blood Brothers) and Pearl Dragon are Champagne Champagne, a new hiphop duo delivering intriguing beats and boastful rhymes about bagging a Molly Ringwald look-alike—"They say I got a sweet 16/She's a killer like Christine/So pristine, just 19/The kind you find in wet dreams." Wild Orchid Children attack you with their raging party rock like a gang of acid-dropping Lost Boys. This show is the future of the Seattle music scene. (El Corazón, 109 Eastlake Ave E, 381-3094. 8 pm, $8 adv/$10 DOS, all ages.)

Ball of Wax is a quarterly music anthology that combines local and international talent on one overloaded CD. The paltry entry fee for tonight's release party buys you one copy of Ball of Wax, volume 12, and gets you into a show featuring BoW contributors Kate Tucker & the Sons of Sweden, a band that evokes the shimmery vocals and guitar pop of '90s bands like Belly and Mazzy Star, and the grimy reinvention of big-band country by up-and-comers the Crying Shame. (Sunset Tavern, 5433 Ballard Ave NW, 784-4880. 9 pm, $6, 21+.)

No, it's not Frites. It's time to finish grieving for that dearly departed french-fry counter and say a drunken hello to Pike Street Fish Fry, which recently opened in the same location, next to Neumo's. The fries aren't as good, but they're still better than just about any other late-night eatery. And the tempura-fried fish, octopus, and asparagus are light and juicy—perfect for the booze-inspired munchies. Frites is dead. Long live Fish Fry! (Pike Street Fish Fry, 925 E Pike St. 5 pm–late.)

It has been several months since Crawl Space hosted one of its intimate little slide shows, which are like a college lecture and a party in one. Happily, they're back. This one's under the heading "The Built Environment" and features Portland sculptor Jenene Nagy, who is showing at the gallery; Seattle's Susan Robb (a Stranger Genius Award winner, now showing at Lawrimore Project); photographer Adam Satushek; and media artist Thom Heileson. Crawl Space is small, so get there early. (Crawl Space, 504 E Denny Way, #1, 201-2441. 7:30 pm, free, all ages.)

The synth symphonies of French band M83 have always sounded vaguely like film scores, but their latest album, Saturdays = Youth, could be the soundtrack to some '80s teen-misfit romance. The record abounds with sonic signifiers of the decade—sweeping synth pads, gated reverb drums, Molly Ringwald—but M83's lush, layered palette and newfound knack for crafting succinctly stunning pop gems like "Kim & Jessie" and "Graveyard Girl" transcend mere revivalism. This is the show that makes me wish I wasn't going to Sasquatch! this weekend. (Neumo's, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $12, 21+.)

You can't help but fall in love with Jack's wide brown eyes, eager face, and sincere stammer. But Jack grew up in prison after committing a horrible crime as a boy and is trying to ditch his old self and build a new identity. Based on a novel by British writer Jonathan Trigell, Boy A's suspense telescopes into the past and the future as we learn what Jack did and whether he can handle his new life—first job, first girlfriend, first time on ecstasy, and so on. The final scene bludgeons us with bathos, but everything preceding teeters thrillingly between hope and disaster. (Uptown Cinema, 511 Queen Anne Ave N. 7 pm, ticket info at www.thestranger.com/siff.)

The subtitle speaks to this dark comedy's complete rejection of aggressive action, including noticeable plot progression. But writer/director Stephane Lafleur digs deeply in this stylish stasis, tracking a half-dozen lonely French souls as they live out their quietly complicated lives, from a new widow paralyzed by liberation to a traveling salesmen so hungry for connection he'll watch you have sex, if you ask nice. Lafleur's appetite for pathos is matched by his eye for perversity, and the resulting film is a slow-burning charmer. (Pacific Place, 600 Pine St. 9:30 pm, ticket info at www.thestranger.com/siff.)

Errol Morris's documentary about Abu Ghraib is startling, not because of the now infamous images (though they have not lost their capacity to startle), but because Morris is sincerely interested in the people who took them. Framed by Sabrina Harman's increasingly uneasy letters home to her lesbian partner, Standard Operating Procedure seeks answers to questions that are usually purely rhetorical: Who would do such a thing to another human being? And why would you want to photograph it? (See movie times..) ANNIE WAGNER

Sherry Markovitz is known for her sculpture: totemic wall-trophy animals drowning in beads and shells and feathers. Some of those will be at Greg Kucera Gallery. But since 2006, she's been making paintings on silk, and the medium brings out something wild in her. Marriage, the first of her silk paintings, portrays a doll-like white woman and a primitively styled Native American man; Two-Faced Cross-Eyed Baby is pretty much what it sounds like—and more disturbing. (Greg Kucera Gallery, 212 Third Ave S, 624-0770. 10:30 am–5:30 pm, free.)

Few voices in hiphop, or all of pop music, are as distinct and divisive as Dizzee Rascal's. Rising out of the critically praised (but commercially stillborn) East London grime scene, Rascal raps with a rubbery, harsh, heavily accented bark that evokes grim council estates, CCTV paranoia, and druggy urban smog. But Rascal's England is also one of world-conquering ambition, as announced on his monumental, upwardly mobile anthem "Fix Up, Look Sharp." With Brooklyn-born MC and producer El-P. (Neumo's, 925 E Pike St, 709-9467. 8 pm, $17 adv, all ages.)

Earlier this year, Seattle filmmaker Sandy Cioffi and her crew were traveling in Nigeria in search of closing footage for Sweet Crude, her documentary about life in the dirt-poor-but-oil-rich Niger Delta. On April 12, they were apprehended by the Nigerian military and held for seven harrowing days. Tonight Cioffi joins an international panel of journalists and human-rights advocates to parse "the deeper story and larger issues" behind her detainment and the growing risks of international journalism. (University of Washington, Kane Hall Room 130, www.brownpapertickets.com. 7 pm, $10/$5.)

Two weekends of performances by 16 companies from Seattle, Vancouver, and Portland—typically, one-third of the work is execrable, one-third is middling, and one-third is the best thing you've ever seen. Arguing about which shows fall into which category is half the fun. Performing this weekend: Hooliganship (music and animation with 3-D glasses), LAUNCH (dance with text by Rebecca Brown), "Awesome" (an instrumental about a forest fire), Waxie Moon ("boylesque"), an audio-guided walking tour of Queen Anne (a series of anonymous, site-specific confessions), and more. (On the Boards, 100 W Roy St, 217-9888. 5 and 8 pm, $14–$30. Also Sat May 17.)

Harmony Korine's third feature film has a nun falling out of a plane, Werner Herzog playing a priest in a tropical country, a young man impersonating a Dangerous-era Michael Jackson on the streets of Paris, and a commune of celebrity impersonators who are trying to live as far away from reality as they can. The movie is great, and Samantha Morton (a Marilyn Monroe impersonator) delivers the most magical performance of her career. (Northwest Film Forum, 1515 12th Ave, 329-2629. 4:30, 7, and 9:15 pm. Through Thurs May 22.)

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.)

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.)

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.)

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.)

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.)

Seattle Art Museum says that its 35-hour marathon concluding the Louvre's Roman art show will include gladiators, which sounds like a recipe for lameness that could reach Renaissance faire levels. It could be ironic-good. Or, if you're in the market for regular-good, there's the promise of simply being at the museum with Augustus and double-Elvis at 3:00 a.m.—and admission will be half off during the wee hours. (Seattle Art Museum, 1300 First Ave, 625-8900. Sat 10 am–Sun 9 pm, $20/$10 from 2–7 am.)

Tonight's show is a welcome back after a six-month hiatus for Natalie Portman's Shaved Head, and in advance of their debut album, Glistening Pleasure, due this summer. The young band members are a little older, their moniker is a little more dated, and their frivolous electro-pop candies—imagine an innocuously juvenile LCD Soundsystem—are a little more glistening. Portland keytar wizard Copy opens, along with Port Townsend's hugely promising teenage rock trio New Faces. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $8/$9, all ages.)

Common Market's new EP, Black Patch War, contains some of Sabzi's richest productions. Each detail is lovingly made and expressed. (Listening to it puts me in mind of South London's Burial, whose attention to detail is supernatural.) RA Scion, Common Market's rapper, is much more reflective on this effort, his words and thoughts lost in a warm wash of music. Black Patch War stands to be one of the best works of art to come out of Seattle this year. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $7/$8, all ages.)

Mandy Greer takes craft as far as it can go—and then much, much further. At Bumbershoot in 2006, she filled a room (and caused a backed-up line of viewers) with a pile of obsessively sewn and crocheted entrails. Now Bellevue Arts Museum is displaying her largest and most intricate installation to date, a new work based on Greer's interpretation of Jacopo Tintoretto's painting The Origin of the Milky Way. "It's about broken me," the artist wrote in an e-mail. (Bellevue Arts Museum, 510 Bellevue Way NE, 425-519-0770. 10 am–5:30 pm, $7.)

All three of Aleksandar Hemon's books of fiction are smeared with violence, squalor, Sarajevo, and America. The Lazarus Project, Hemon's newest novel, is about two Eastern European men, separated by nearly a century but brought together by a collection of odd, beautiful photographs. Hemon writes life into even incidental characters. In one diner scene, he gives us hope and STDs, served over eggs: A businessman has a gait "suggesting a sore groin" and two prostitutes "savor... the sunny, pimpless morning." (Elliott Bay Book Company, 101 S Main St, 624-6600. 8 pm, free.)

In this movie, Taiwanese director Hsiao-hsien Hou gives thanks and praise to Albert Lamorisse's The Red Balloon, which was made in 1956 and concerns a boy, a balloon, and the rooftops of Paris. In Hou's Flight of the Red Balloon, the boy, balloon, and the rooftops are associated with a young Chinese filmmaker (Fang Song), a mother (Juliette Binoche), and a cluttered apartment. The result is a film that gets to the truth of a balloon—its beauty and vulnerability. Each scene in the movie is in danger of going "pop!" (See movie times for details.)

How the fuck are Dark Meat even going to fit in the Comet? This future-freak-folk-psych-punk collective rolls 13 to 23 people deep on tour, including a full horn section, face painters, confetti throwers, and probably whoever else felt like hopping on the bus the day they took off from their commune in Athens, Georgia. The Comet, meanwhile, is roughly the size of a large bong chamber—or at least that's how it will feel (and smell) come Sunday. (Comet, 922 E Pike St, 322-9272. 9 pm, $7, 21+.)

Atlanta has T.I. and T.I.P. Seattle has Scratchmaster Joe and Nicemaster Nice. Scratchmaster Joe is a turntablist show-off, a selector of the nastiest ghettotech raunch, and a world-class jerk. Nicemaster Nice is a benevolent community booster, responsible for organizing legal graffiti murals and building an electronic music studio for the Meadow Lake Teen Center. Both are aliases for Joe Martinez. Tonight's CD release party for the new mix, Scratchmaster Joe Is Nicemaster Nice, will unite his Jekyll and Hyde halves. (Lo_Fi, 429 Eastlake Ave E, 254-2824. 9 pm, $5 before 11 pm/$10 after, 21+.)

OKOK continues its run of quietly excellent shows with While, featuring two artists who minimalistically reflect our national panic. Mauro Altamura shot the slightly ominous landing patterns of planes as seen from a hotel room near Heathrow. Anna Von Mertens made quilts depicting star rotation patterns above violent events in American history: September 11, Hiroshima on the morning the bomb was dropped, and the Battle of Antietam. All of those happened during daylight hours—these are what onlookers would have seen if the sky had turned black with disaster. (OKOK Gallery, 5107 Ballard Ave NW, 789-6242. Noon–6 pm, free.)

Pleasureboaters, the fantastically spastic local trio, thrash around the stage like cartoons, bending their bodies and twisting their faces into positions and expressions that echo their corkscrewing, discordant sounds. Opening band Vampire Hands are on the opposite side of the spectrum. They captivate their audiences with a mellow—sometimes sexy, sometimes haunting—guitar-heavy vibe, layered with breathy vocals and the occasional psychedelic jam. (Vera Project, Seattle Center, 956-8372. 7:30 pm, $7/$8, all ages.) MEGAN SELING

Autobahn is a cycle of five short plays by Neil LaBute—the world's leading misanthrope—all of which happen in cars. In one, a jackass husband begrudgingly apologizes to his silent, weeping wife: "I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear? Is it? 'Kay. It was bad of me to call you a cunt, whether we were in the Albertsons or not." Re-bar is an appropriately moody place to watch a couple returning a foster child, a date turning sour, and other stripped-down vignettes on human awfulness. (Re-bar, 1114 Howell St, 233-9873. 7:30 pm, $15, 21+.)