A Sexy Blog

“Night Teeth” is a candy-striped cocktail of a movie, the sort mixed up by a bartender who knows the kids at the club haven’t yet acquired the taste—or the patience—for the top shelf stuff. It’s a vampire thriller with its eyes fixed, not on the metaphysics of the undead or the ache of immortality, but on making sure the neon reflects off a cheekbone just so, and that nobody, not even the most hapless human, ever need pause to question why vampires so often look like a fashion ad left out in the rain.

Wes Anderson, with “The French Dispatch,” doesn’t just double down on his dollhouse aesthetics and narrative tinkering—he sets fire to the whole playset and invites us to watch the parade of marionettes capering through the flames. If you thought “The Grand Budapest Hotel” was ornate, with its boxes inside boxes and cloud-cuckoo aspect ratios, well, buckle your literary seatbelt: the man has gone and made a cinematic New Yorker magazine, bound cover to cover in in-jokes, pastel misery, and a cast list that plays like a trivia question written by a hyperactive cinephile in the grip of nostalgia.

If the movies have taught us anything about time travel, it’s that the past might be a playground for regret—an endless loop of adolescent screwups getting a second (or third, or twentieth) shot at rewriting the fate of humanity, or at least saving their high school sweetheart. Tokyo Revengers, a turbo-charged punk vacuum pressed into gangland melodrama and science-fiction stripes, wants desperately to ride that carousel—sometimes dizzy, sometimes earnest, and blessedly, just self-serious enough to keep you from rolling your eyes straight out of your skull.

What does it mean to come of age on the wrong side of the tracks, in an era when a school blazer is both a uniform and a battle flag? Phuttipong Nakthong’s 4 Kings slips us into the fever hallways and bruised afternoons of 1990s Thailand, where vocational schools function as both families and war zones. And the miracle here—the surprise, really—is that the film doesn’t just wallow in nostalgia or gangster-movie clichés; it bristles with anguish, tenderness, and an ache for lost possibilities.

Let’s be honest: “The Vault” wants to be your next favorite heist movie, but it can’t even manage to lift your pulse. Directed by Jaume Balagueró, this Spanish exercise in genre mimicry gathers up all the usual suspects—plucky prodigy, world-weary ringleader, hacker-by-numbers—and puts them through a series of motions so familiar, you could swear you’ve wandered into a bank robbery rehearsal dinner.

There are dreadful movies, there are glorious ones, and then there are those—like this laugh-riot of a mockbuster—that leap into the yawning abyss between, flailing their cardboard limbs, and come up gasping, ridiculous, and (miraculously!) alive. Planet Dune isn't just bad. It's an epic car crash, a filmic yard sale, a Walmart-brand space opera that dares—gallingly—to sidle up to the grandeur of Villeneuve’s Dune and ask, “Can I copy your homework?”

Frank Herbert’s “Dune”—the shimmering mirage that has sent both readers and filmmakers staggering deliriously across the cinematic wastelands—is the sort of Everest that seems to breed not triumph but splendid, gasping misadventure. The mythos is so overstuffed, so cryptic and unyielding, that every fresh assault on its slopes promises a new brand of madness: what you get, more often than not, is altitude sickness in Dolby Surround.