“Back on the Strip,” about a young man who wants to become a magician and the middle-aged ex-strippers who train him to be an exotic dancer instead, is a slapped-together indie comedy. It would probably crater completely and become unwatchable were it not for the charisma of its actors, which is boundless, and the lightheartedness of the entire project: it knows that the purpose of this movie is to make people laugh, no matter what it takes, and that the more shameless the joke or sight gag, the bigger the laugh. 

The five strippers, who were stars in Las Vegas in the 1990s and called themselves The Chocolate Chips, are played by Wesley Snipes (as Luther, aka “Mr. Big”), J.B. Smoove (as Amos, a preacher by day), Bill Bellamy (as Tyriq, a stay-at-home dad to four daughters he sired with his wife, a female bodybuilder), Faison Love (as Desmond, a garage owner who’s gained 100 pounds since his stripping days), and Gary Owen (a white doctor with a breast augmentation clinic who, back in the day, fooled the other four into thinking he was Black; more on that in a moment). Any of these actors has more charm and comic timing in his pinky toe than most actors have in their whole bodies. The film benefits enormously just from having them onscreen, getting the old “band” back together, working through the differences that split them up 25 years ago, and busting each other’s chops with the easygoing intimacy of brothers. 

Unfortunately, the movie isn’t really about them. It’s about Merlin and his career ambitions and romantic problems. Will he win his dream job and dream girl? You know the answer, and the movie knows you know the answer, but it stays focused on Merlin, to the point where “Back on the Strip” turns into a modern equivalent of one of those old movies that cast aging comedians that audiences actually came to the theater to see, but subordinates their clowning to a love story between two comparatively bland leads. The movie gets a lot better once the Chocolate Chips get together again and start rehearsing and reconnecting, and it gives all of the characters a subplot. 

When we meet Merlin, he’s a high school senior in Los Angeles who’s madly in love with his best friend and magic assistant Robin (Raigin Harris), one of those cheerful, poised, beautiful, smart ciphers that lovable, ambitious heroes often have in comedies. Merlin wants to go to Las Vegas and hit big as an illusionist, and tells Robin about his goal. Alas, his performance at the high school magic show is ruined by his own mistakes, then by the treachery of one of his rivals, the leader of a group of all-white self-styled gangsta rappers from Beverly Hills, who pulls down Merlin’s pants and underwear onstage. Thus do we learn of Merlin’s true gift: a member so enormous that when we see it tucked into his underwear, it suggests a two-foot-long kielbasa folded in half.

Flash-forward a few years to Merlin after college: he’s working as a birthday party clown with trio of other clowns and still dreaming of going to Vegas when he runs into Robin again. Unfortunately, Merlin also meets her snotty, condescending boyfriend, who is about to become her fiancé: Blaze (Ryan Alexander Holmes), who says he’s a comedian but is mainly an “influencer” who spends seemingly every waking moment recording himself and his posse and posting the footage online. Merlin’s supportive single mother Verna (Tiffany Haddish) helps her son make his big move to Vegas by calling up her old friend Rita (Colleen Camp), an old stoner who runs a run-down motel with a burned-out neon sign (the only working letters spell out “VAGINA”) and arranges for Merlin to stay there for a week while auditioning for magic gigs and obsessing over his loss of Robin.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “I’ve seen this nice guy-nice girl-rotten fiancé configuration a million times—what about the aging strippers played by a bunch of can’t-miss character actors?”, you’re just going to have to deal with it, because the movie is determined to go through the motions and contrivances of keeping the appealingly performed but boringly written Merlin and Robin from realizing their destiny, right up until the climax, which fans of a certain famous storyline on “A Different World” would have seen coming from twenty kielbasas away even if the characters didn’t have a long scene where they talked about it while watching a rerun. Directed by Chris Spencer, who cowrote the screenplay with Eric Daniel, “Back on the Strip” doesn’t trouble itself with anything it isn’t actually interested in, such as giving the romantic leads real and complicated personalities rather than writing them as a couple of ingenues, or, for that matter, even making you believe that young Merlin is a good or even competent magician. 

In theaters now.

Full disclosure, right off the top: I knew I was going to be a soft touch on “Strays.”

We’re a longtime Boston Terrier family, and I’ve always wondered what our dogs would sound like if they could talk to us. (Surely, I’m not the only one who entertains such insane ideas.) So the prospect of an R-rated comedy in which Jamie Foxx provides the voice of a street-smart Boston named Bug—who drops copious F-bombs, gets high on mushrooms, and humps discarded couches—was very exciting.

“Strays” is pretty much a one-joke movie, one last romp at the end of summer. But it finds enough ways into that joke within its perfectly pithy running time to remain zippy and enjoyable. The way it upends heartwarming dog adventure movie tropes is often hilariously inspired. And there’s great chemistry within the voice cast, particularly between Foxx and star Will Ferrell, who had the unusual benefit of recording together.

Director Josh Greenbaum has shown a flair for out-there comedy with a sweetness at its core in the delightfully bizarre “Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar” (2021). He achieves a similar balance with raunchier material in “Strays.” Besides featuring a ton of profanity, the screenplay from Dan Perrault includes plenty of poop and pee jokes (not all of which are entirely puerile), vigorous humping, and some wilderness mayhem that some may find shocking. But the film also explores the importance of identifying and escaping toxic relationships, achieving a sense of self-worth, and basking in the support of deep and unexpected friendships.

I may have teared up a few times. Like I said at the start, a soft touch. Your mileage may vary on this canine road trip.

“Strays” begins on an upbeat note with narration from Ferrell as Reggie, an adorably scruffy Border terrier who’s clueless to the fact that his miserable, abusive owner (Will Forte) hates him and keeps trying to abandon him. “Today is going to be the best day ever!” he intones in a sunny manner reminiscent of Margot Robbie’s optimism at the start of “Barbie.” And totally coincidentally, “Strays” shares a similar structure to Greta Gerwig’s mega-blockbuster: Idealistic character leaves home, goes to the “real world,” makes friends, and learns hard truths before returning to fix things with the newfound knowledge. Only in this case, the protagonist’s purpose is literally to bite off his owner’s penis, a more violent form of eviscerating the patriarchy than Barbie ever could imagine. Ferrell is essentially doing a version of his character in “Elf” here, mixing wide-eyed enthusiasm with deadpan observations and bringing his signature sincerity to a silly role. As always, he’s a hoot.

After his owner dumps him in a faraway city, Reggie gets help in his quest from the trash-talking Bug, who insists he wants to be a stray and navigates the world with the swagger of a little dog who thinks he’s big. Foxx has fantastic energy here, savoring the musicality of his character’s every profane tirade. Along for the trip are the Australian shepherd Maggie (Isla Fisher), a gifted sniffer, and a Great Dane named Hunter (Randall Park), a former police K-9 who now works as a therapy dog for the elderly.

Cursing and calamitous antics ensue, much of which you’ve probably already seen in the trailer, but thankfully there are plenty of surprises in store. The visual effects work is mostly seamless, with all of the dogs (and their unseen trainers) giving impressive physical performances. Some of the CGI in the face and mouth movements are distractingly jumpy and inconsistent, especially regarding Bug’s dialogue. Is it too much to ask for total realism in a late-summer talking dog movie?  

The gross-out gags may grow a bit repetitive, but “Strays” ultimately redeems itself by ending on a note that’s feel-good without being cloying. It features some amusing insights into how dogs perceive the world, from fireworks to postal workers. And it just might make you think twice about what that pampered Pomeranian in the expensive sweater is barking about at the dog park.

Now playing in theaters. 

Bodies are messy. Women’s bodies are especially messy. There are so many phases, and so much can go wrong! There are so many procedures required to make things run smoothly, and these procedures are sometimes painful, placing women at the mercy of medical professionals who treat women’s pain with cavalier indifference. (This pain gap has generated a lot of chatter recently.) The pain and stress of having a body subject to the whims of natural (or unnatural) forces is the subject of Laura Moss’ riveting “birth/rebirth,” where two women merge into a joint Dr. Frankenstein as they attempt to re-animate the body of a dead child. 

“birth/rebirth” has some “body horror” tropes and some straight horror tropes, but it’s not really a monster story. It’s more of a medical thriller, helmed by two twisted conspirators, both operating from a place of desperation and trauma. The tone Moss establishes makes the events seem almost plausible. What if human bodies could regenerate themselves like a starfish does? Is there any way a dead body could come back to life through legitimate medical means?

The two main characters—Rose (Marin Ireland) and Celie (Judy Reyes)—are well-prepared to address this question. Rose works in a hospital morgue, and Celie is a labor/delivery nurse. To call Rose intense is an understatement: she is forbiddingly anti-social and clearly keeping secrets. On the other hand, Celie is raising her daughter Lila (A.J. Lister) on her own and is well-loved by her colleagues. She clearly loves her job. The two women work in the same hospital but don’t know each other. When Lila dies unexpectedly from bacterial meningitis, Rose—who has already been performing regeneration experiments in her apartment and has successfully brought a dead pig named Muriel back to life—sees her chance for the ultimate experiment. Rose packs the corpse in a suitcase and brings it back to her mad scientist’s lair. When Celie discovers Lila’s body has been “lost,” she suspects Rose and follows her home.

One of the main strengths of “birth/rebirth” is Moss’ resistance to the expected. One might expect Celie to be outraged at what Rose has done. One might expect the film to unfold as a battle of wills: Rose fighting to keep her experiment going and Celie attempting to thwart it and rescue Lila for a proper burial. One might expect Lila to “re-animate” as a monster, turning on her saviors with murderous violence. But … none of that happens.

Instead, we get the absurd spectacle of Celie and Rose, medical professionals, teaming up to work on the experiment. Celie moves in with Rose. They take shifts watching over the dead child. They rush out the door to their real jobs. They pack lunches in the kitchen. Muriel, the regenerated pig, snuffles in the corner, and Lila lies in bed, her skin a purplish hue. Since fetus cells are needed to make the essential serum, Celie uses her position at the hospital to acquire it through dishonest—and, frankly, monstrous—means. Even more terrible is the glimpse of how Rose got those fetus cells before Celie, the maternity nurse, came along. It involves unwitting men, bar bathrooms, globs of collected sperm, and syringes. It’s gruesome, but not half as gruesome as how Rose handles her eventual pregnancies. Much of this is stomach-churning, but the subversiveness of “birth/rebirth” is that almost everything shown is an everyday medical procedure, procedures women endure every day in the normal world. The physical demands of having a body, of getting pregnant, bringing a pregnancy to term, of labor, delivery, infertility, damaged cervixes, and all the rest … are here, but twisted. These women will stop at nothing. It’s a match made in mad-scientist heaven.

Both actresses deliver layered and complex performances. The film is often funny, one of the many ways Moss allows for the unexpected. The humor comes from the juxtaposition of what Rose and Celie are trying to do with how matter of fact they are doing it. The dead child lies in bed as the women make lunches, or feed the omnipresent Muriel, or problem-solve each crisis. They make cracks about one another’s diet like a bickering married couple. “At least you didn’t do anything unethical like eat a ham sandwich,” snaps Celie at one point. Celie is all warm and caring; Rose is cold and calculated. Together they make a formidable team. They will use anyone and anything to achieve their goals. In this, they betray the women in their care—dead and alive. Natural biological processes are often very stressful. Nobody knows this better than Celie: she knows the buttons to push with a nervous pregnant woman, and she does.

It’s amazing how far “birth/rebirth” goes into this amoral territory. Lila’s regeneration is a “miracle,” although Rose balks at the term when Celie uses it. This is science, nothing more. The mood established is eerie and mournful, the colors muted and hospital-morgue-green. There are barely any scenes outdoors. Nature doesn’t exist in this world. Ariel Marx’s score is well-placed, sometimes taking on a light tone, adding to the destabilized atmosphere—the music drones on subliminally in an eerie counterpoint. There are a couple of false notes along the way, where Lila’s regeneration seems to be going off the rails, where the supernatural appears to be raising its dead-eyed head. These scenes come from another movie running on “expected” lines.

Two small moments, neither of which center on Celie or Rose, stand out as pointed reminders of the resonances at play in this creepy tale. Early on, Celie assists with a birth. The woman is working hard; the husband stands by supportively. Suddenly the doctor says, “I’m going to perform an episiotomy,” and the woman gasps, “Oh, please, let me try to do it myself!” In her plea is every story you hear about women’s choices being ignored, their concerns about their own bodies dismissed and overruled. In the second moment, a pregnant woman is in crisis on the delivery table, enduring the chaos of an emergency C-section. The nurse reassures her, “Your baby’s going to be fine, I promise you.” Good news! The pregnant woman asks foggily, “What about me?” She’s terrified. The nurse barely understands the question. What about you? What kind of question is that for a pregnant woman to ask? Who cares about you?

Now playing on Shudder. 

In writer/director Vuk Lungulov-Klotz’s feature debut, “Mutt,” time never slows down for his busy lead character, Feña (Lio Mehiel). The story follows a day in the life of a trans man living in New York City, which in this movie, means coping with prejudice and trying to resolve everyday problems. At a club, Feña reconnects with his old ex-boyfriend, John (Cole Doman), who later asks to see and feel the scars of Feña’s top surgery yet walks away coldly after spending the night together. Next, Feña’s younger sister, Zoe (MiMi Ryder), shows up unannounced after running away from school, but he has other worries on his mind, like how his mom may accuse him of kidnapping his sister (they’re estranged), how the bank won’t cash his check because his current name does not match his deadname, and how his friend who promised to lend their car to pick up Feña’s father (another estranged parent) from the airport has fallen through. It’s one long, difficult day, but Feña muddles through, one step at a time, in front of Lungulov-Klotz’s camera. 

Feña’s New York odyssey brings to mind movies like “After Hours” or “Do the Right Thing,” where a character crosses many people in a short span of time, an experience intensified by the city’s density. But the film’s always-on-the-go pacing resembles more of “Tangerine,” Sean Baker’s film about two trans women of color in Los Angeles. “Mutt” is structured so tightly there are few moments where the film finally slows down enough to let the characters exist, for quiet moments that allow for conversation and confession. And fortunately or unfortunately for Feña, the majority of these vulnerable moments are spent with his complicated ex. This is not an easy, laid back day, and that pacing can feels exhausting at times. 

Lungulov-Klotz’s story also functions like a double-edged sword, especially when it comes to hostile moments like when Feña is misgendered, insensitively questioned by strangers, ostracized by family, or told to hide his trans identity. It’s heartbreaking and frustrating, and he only has so much energy in a given day to cope with people’s ignorance. I can understand how constant rounds of having to justify his existence can wear on audiences already subjected to those same comments and judgments. For some, seeing that oppression onscreen may feel like seeing their experiences represented, seen, and validated. For others, it’s a painful reminder many times over of how the rest of the cis world treats them. “Mutt” offers little in terms of escapism but sticks closer to an intensified version of realism compressed into a brief runtime. 

As Feña, Lio Mehiel conjures up a scrappy screen presence that doesn’t feel too polished or too awkward. He’s wounded yet protective, unafraid to point out his ex’s hypocrisy yet still attracted to him and can’t help but let his eyes meet John’s. We see him reluctantly look after his sister, and work through his network of friends for a helping hand in a time of need. In cinematographer Matthew Pothier’s camera, the frame often closes in on his face, his determined stare, his outrage at bigots, his concern for his sister, and frustration over his bad day. He carries the film on his thin shoulders, beckoning the audience to hurry up and follow him to his next stop. 

The most rewarding scenes are the ones shared between Feña and his sister, Zoe. For once, he is not being micro-aggressed, not being measured to the physicality he used to have. Zoe takes him for who he is: a big brother, sometimes reluctant to help, but ready to step up when needed and listen to her problems. And when Zoe does mess up Feña’s plans, like locking him out of a date’s apartment with his keys and wallet inside, Feña doesn’t retaliate the way their mother does. In small conversations, we see them bond over each other’s pain. 

“Mutt” sticks close to Feña’s perspective, keeping almost all of the other characters at a distance. The isolation he feels when he cannot rely on friends, family, or former lovers adds to agonizing loneliness in a city teeming with people. Lungulov-Klotz’s feature debut is a complicated film that can pull in a viewer or alienate them. It’s so concentrated in its intensity that it can draw in one’s sympathy or exhaust them. It’s a film with a lot on its mind, a frenetic energy to make it to the end of the day, and a character we root for from start to finish. 

Now playing in theaters. 

Aggressively mediocre, Netflix’s “The Monkey King” takes no risks and offers too little humor, heart, or action to entertain all but the youngest in the family. Anyone in your clan old enough to read and not merely be enchanted by loud noises and flashing colors will likely get bored by this 96-minute movie that feels twice as long.

Tales of the Mandarin Chinese character known as Sun Wukong, or the Monkey King, have been told for generations, adapted into manga, TV series, and films many times. In fact, the great Stephen Chow, who made “Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons” in 2013 (along with must-sees “Kung Fu Hustle” and “Shaolin Soccer,” both directly referenced here) is an executive producer on this project, lending a bit of cultural credence to a Chinese tale being told by an American animator. However, director Anthony Stacchi, who helmed the hit “Open Season” and the excellent “The Boxtrolls,” fails to find enough that feels like actual cultural specificity here. It’s a truly generic tale of heroism, a road trip movie that takes two characters literally to Hell and back but doesn’t find much of interest on the journey. It’s a harmless animated adventure and a time-killer. Sometimes that’s all it takes for harried parents, but one of the most famous legends in Chinese history deserves better.

Telling part of the first section of Journey to the West, “The Monkey King” centers that tome’s most beloved character, voiced a bit annoyingly by an inconsistent Jimmy O. Yang. Considering himself more than an ordinary simian, The Monkey King strives to be an immortal, and to be one, he must defeat 100 demons with his magical staff (Nan Li), a clever idea rendered dully here. He eventually partners with a girl named Lin (Jolie Hoang-Rappaport) on his journey into mythological history, and the partnership between a monkey who is convinced he’s a hero and a girl who’s convinced she could never be one does give a film that was too narratively loose some much-needed structure (although it’s interesting to note that Lin is a creation of this version of this tale and not the source).

“The Monkey King” gets its most visual and character strength from the Dragon King, a singing, dancing, power-mad creation voiced well by Bowen Yang of “Saturday Night Live.” A true villain in a piece that doesn’t have one for too long, Yang’s egocentric demon gives the final act of “The Monkey King” some needed stakes and some well-crafted fight choreography, courtesy of Siwei Zou. When the film occasionally channels Chow’s sense of martial arts whimsy, it finds some momentum. But it regularly then lurches to a halt for a generic conversation between Monkey and Lin or another episodic encounter along the way, often scored to a heavy-metal riff that mistakes loud for exciting.

Of course, “The Monkey King” will eventually impart some lessons, including one about the title character getting too powerful for his own good in the final act. That the script by Ron J. Friedman, Stephen Bencich, and Rita Hsiao includes the actual Buddha in its climax could lead to a few interesting conversations with the little ones about peace, acceptance, and belief. However, like so many aspects of “The Monkey King,” it’s more like a prompt instead of an actual conversation.

Netflix has excelled over the last few years with some of the best animation out there. Projects like “Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio” and “The Mitchells vs. the Machines” got a lot of deserved attention, but there have also been many lesser-known family flicks that featured far more ambition than what’s often seen in theaters (“Klaus,” “The Sea Beast,” “The Willoughbys,” and more). I approached “The Monkey King” with the hope it could be 2023’s surprise Netflix animated classic. It won’t be joining the immortals of the form any time soon.

On Netflix now.