A spaghetti western based on a 1842 Nikolai Gogol novel, a new Spider-Man and Gregg Araki gets back to sex basics

⭐⭐⭐Rating: 3 out of 4

It’s been 12 years since Gregg Araki made his last film, “White Bird in a Blizzard,” a competently done mystery and something of a restrained effort compared to his gloriously gonzo, queer-leaning, desperado films of the 1990s (“Totally F***ed Up,” “The Doom Generation” and “The Living End”). The good news with “I Want You Sex” is that master of irreverent cinema is back and in boundary-pushing form. Instead of getting fucked up, people here are getting fucked—both literally and figuratively. We begin shades of “Sunset Boulevard” as a young art assistant (Cooper Hoffman, “Licorice Pizza”) in boxers and with a noticeably bloodied face stumbles out the sliding glass doors of a poolside bungalow to find his artist boss (Olivia Wilde) buck-naked and floating face down. From there we rewind back to the gallery where Hoffman’s naïve and far-too-trusting Elliot is part of a merry band of art boys who line-up, mouths masticating gobs of red gum with intense rapidity and then attach their chewed wads to an inchoate mural of parted labia majora—vagina gum art, who knew? The LA based gallery is the muse hive of Erika Tracy (Wilde) a Koons kitschy pop artist of note—and also a high priestess of sexual deviancy, ever dressed in stylish S&M office wear with a blasé come-hither look ever etched on her face. She’s Cruella de Vil with a fetish laundry list. In short she makes a sex slave out of Elliot who at home is in sexless relationship with his bookish girlfriend (Charli xcx). Anal probing (seemingly a cinematic trend these days as evidenced by this, “Little Brother” and “The Invite” also starring Wilde), spanking and threesomes ensue. Through it all Elliot looks like a lamb going to slaughter, but it’s hard to feel sorry for him. In regard to that opening scene, the current action is driven by detectives (Johnny Knoxville and Margret Cho) trying to untangle what has taken place. If there’s any letdown to “Sex” it’s that Araki and co-writer, Karley Sciortino, bumble the climax—the dark raucous sex comedy goes too quietly into the night. The film however is a showcase for Wilde, who glides into the part with relish and vim without going over-the-top. It’s a piquant antithetical spin from that other movie playing in theaters (“The Invite”) that she directed and plays a frustrated, not-had-sex-in-a-year San Franciscan housewife.

Interview: the new film is a devastating must see

The Cambridge-based filmmaker on his new documentary “Remake,” which looks at his son’s death, and the 40th anniversary release of “Sherman’s March.”

Ross McElwee, the affable, soft-spoken southern gentleman who bares all in his autobiographical documentaries, has often chronicled personal pain. In his groundbreaking work, “Sherman’s March” (1986), we see a budding young filmmaker’s lost loves and unrealized yearnings. In his latest, “Remake,” he wrestles with the tragic death of his son in 2016.

The two complementary films begin an extended run at the Coolidge Corner Theatre this week to commemorate the newly remastered 4K, 40th anniversary rerelease of “Sherman’s March,” as well as the release of “Remake.” To kick off the run Thursday night, McElwee will be in conversation with fellow Cantabrigian filmmaker and Harvard professor, Robb Moss, following a screening of “Sherman’s March.”

McElwee’s films are intoxicating in their quiet, observant demeanor — revelations that wash over you sans any didactic ice-bucket deluge. Their subtle, lingering resonance is not far off from the hypnotic vexations that became the signature of fellow Cambridge filmmaker Frederick Wiseman throughout his impressive body of work. Their styles and approaches, however, are vastly different: the recently deceased Wiseman gave you fly-on-the-wall direct cinema, whereas McElwee’s more immediately accessible chronicles provide you with in-the-moment perspectives that, in their intimacy, feel genuinely honest and self-deprecating — especially given the filmmaker’s willingness to expose his vulnerabilities.

Two new rom-coms and a zombie movie

“Office Romance”

⭐⭐ Rating: 2 out of 4

There’s plenty of turbulence — and even some flatulence — but few romantic sparks in this Jennifer Lopez showcase about a tough female CEO who gets involved with her corporate attorney. The rub is that the airline company, AirCruz, has a no-office-romance policy. It’s a fireable offense, so you’d think J.Lo’s hard-charging Jackie Cruz (she’s also a pilot) would have no problem tweaking the policy. But then where would the comedy go?

The answer doesn’t really matter since the romance between Jackie and her new, hot-shot attorney Daniel Blanchflower (Brett Goldstein), a relocated Englishman, is the least interesting thing in the movie. Goldstein’s buttoned-up Brit is best when in scenes with actors other than J.Lo, especially his sister (Jodie Whittaker, funny but underused), who’s in prison for beheading someone with a machete, or Sydney (Betty Gilpin, so good in “The Hunt”), the quirky and very pregnant number-two at AirCruz, who seemingly has a thing for Jackie and views Daniel as the enemy. Their frequent stare-downs are one of the better gags in “Office Romance,” as is Bradley Whitford (“Get Out”) as the boisterous lead counsel sidelined by a breakfast burrito. Wasted in smaller roles are Edward James Olmos as Jackie’s father, who started the airline, and Mary Wiseman as an office assistant with bad irritable bowel syndrome.

Goldstein and fellow “Ted Lasso” writer Joe Kelly (Goldstein also acts in the soccer series) throw everything and the kitchen sink into the script — the British use of the C-word, World Cup star Jude Bellingham, and sex play while dressed as a Buckingham Palace guard. Think “Notting Hill” by way of “American Pie.” It doesn’t fly, but there are a few chuckles along the taxiway of failed funnies.

“In the Hand of Dante”

An impressive A-list cast and some astonishing visuals get wasted in this fatuous fantasy from one of the more interesting minds behind the camera these days — Julian Schnabel, the painter turned filmmaker who delivered such arty provocations as “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” (2007) and “Basquiat” (1996). The film, based on the 2002 book of the same name by Nick Tosches, is a maniacal mashup of historical icons and modern noir. As a writer. Tosches hovered in the realm of gonzo journalism (best known for his vivid Jerry Lee Lewis biography, “Hellfire”) and made himself the centerpiece of “In the Hand of Dante,” as a writer tasked by the mob to unearth, ascertain and validate the original 14th century copy of Alighieri’s “Divine Comedy.”

The reliable Oscar Isaac plays both Nick and Dante in the two timelines. The former is recruited by a heavy named Joe Black (an underused John Malkovich) and partnered with an oafish hitman (Gerard Butler with a bad dye job) for the paper chase that naturally leads them to Italy (from Jersey to Rome with love). Along the way Butler’s beefy takes out nearly everyone they come into contact with including an elderly woman who does little more than serve them tea, a priest and even a sleeping dog.

Much of the film is stunningly shot in stark black and white by Roman Vasyanov (“Fury”), though there are switches to color when Dante is scouring the Italian coastline seeking enlightenment and inspiration. The film’s driven by a lot of pretentious dialogue about the value and vision of the central document and boasts a body count that requires at least two sets of hands. Most alluring, however, is the casting of Martin Scorsese — hardly recognizable behind a Papa Smurf beard as a religious oracle named Isaiah — and Al Pacino as Nick’s uncle Carmine. The bigger spectacle is Butler pulling double duty as the pope himself and Jason Momoa as yet another hitman in a pristine white suit, who’s saddled with some of the most preposterous and inanely philosophical lines in the film. Gal Gadot adds an angelic presence but is lost in the underwritten role of Nick’s secretary cum love interest. She also takes another one for the team as Dante’s spurned wife, Gemma. At two-and-a-half hours, “In the Hand of Dante” should have been leaner and more tightly honed. It probably could have leaned in more on Tosches’ gonzo sensibilities, as well. For the normally visionary Schnabel, this is his “Megalopolis” (2024).