Napkin
There you are, draped over the end of your chaise longue, charmingly, if rather resignedly letting down your latest unsuitable suitor, doodling away on the doily by your side an image of him squished mercilessly beneath your Geiger stiletto. Celebrating such feats of creativity this inspirational exhibition shows just what some of our finest contemporary illustrators and artists can do to the humble napkin. The 70 results are as varied as they are enjoyable, including work from John Burgerman, Kam Tang, Timorous Beasties and Tatty Divine, and at a reasonable £250 with proceeds going to important food charities it's also a fantastic opportunity to snap up a scrawled Quentin Blake nude or even, gasp, a Chapman brothers crumpled, coffee-stained original.

Dalí and Film
You know Dalí: dripping clocks, teetering elephants, the lobster telephone. Of course you do. Who doesn't? Too often he bares the air of pedestrian popularity, as though his work, steeped in iconography and smug complexity, is too perfect and self-referencing for its own good. And yet we all know him. With its latest show, however, the Tate is keen to suggest that he was more than this mere pop-surrealist by examining his interrelationship with cinema: his influence upon it, via collaborations with the likes of Hitchcock, Disney, and Buñuel; and its influence upon him, as inspiration for his socio-artistic attitude and imagination. Through this unraveling of the cinematic Dalí, the artist that emerges is indeed rather changed from the one we knew before. And to alter so profoundly an artist that everyone knows so well, and to do so for the better, is an act that really should not be missed.

Marcus Coates
Marcus Coates' refreshing performances, captured on film, seem at first glance utterly absurd. There is Stoat, in which his stilted gait recalls the piece's namesake; Out of Season in which a lone football fan is lost in a dense forest; and Finfolk, which sees Coates pull himself from the sea, a human-mimicking seal. Two later films are also on offer: in Journey to the Lower World, Coates is an antlered shaman for the residents of a condemned Liverpudlian block of flats, whilst in Voices of Toge the human speech of his subjects is replaced by birdsong, giving an exaggerated centrality to their movements and emotions. Whether it is the sincerity of the artist or the honesty of his subjects, there is a curious tenderness that transcends the apparent absurdity giving these films an air of magic and childish joy that is satisfyingly poignant.