A devastating drama and a near-future rom-com

“Blue Heron”

⭐⭐⭐1/2 Rating: 3.5 out of 4

In case you missed the best film of the year (so far) — it didn’t play a Cambridge or Somerville theater — you can now catch the devastating picture digitally. In Sophy Romvari’s semi-autobiographical film, a Hungarian family relocates to Vancouver Island, Canada in the 1990s. She fuses family diary, conjured memory and the desire to understand the past within the lens of the present in a haunting, provocative way. It’s also groundbreaking in its narrative structure, bending reality and time to delve deeper into the emotional turmoil and familial pathos that cloud the borders of each frame. 

The first part of the film is told from the point of view of the young daughter — the wide-eyed Sasha, played by Eylul Guven, who is the lone girl among three brothers. The oldest, Jeremy (Edik Beddoes) from the mother’s prior marriage, is often mean to her — interfering with her rock castles at the beach, making a shield of cereal boxes at the breakfast table so he doesn’t have to look at his siblings. Those ripples become more troublesome later when he comes home in handcuffs, takes perilous roof walks, and utters veiled threats to burn down the house. Not normal and not safe, which leaves mom and dad (Iringó Réti and Ádám Tompa) at a loss about what to do. Throughout it all, there’s an edgy “We Need to Talk About Kevin” (2011) vibe, despite its home-movie-style naturalism. How the family attempts to resolve the crisis has future consequences, and that’s where we — and the film — jump ahead to the adult Sasha (Amy Zimmer), reflective and steely, making a documentary about a social work case from the 1990s: as you might expect, it’s Jeremy’s. 

The camerawork and camera placements — outside a window, aloofly watching the action from afar, or inside an adjacent room, overhearing conflict and life-altering information through a wall — are subtle and extraordinary. The cast gives robust, yet nuanced, performances. Réti and Tompa are restrained but stressed as the unnamed parents. Zimmer’s fill-in for Romvari burns soulfully in her quest for answers and closure, and Beddoes is at once viperish and intimidating, yet sympathetically vulnerable. The whole composition is a remarkable accomplishment, especially given such humble resources. The cathartic reflection and reframing of events from varying points in time is poetically akin to Cantabrigian Ross McElwee’s latest, “Remake,” likewise propelled by loss and tragedy — which, like “Blue Heron,” has yet to get a feature run this side of the Charles.

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.