GYPO (Jan Dunn, UK, 2005) In a terrifying sequence, surly British teens follow Czech refugees Tasha and her mother down an alley, bullying them and finally pushing the women's fish-and-chips into their faces. This act is ultimately juvenile in nature, but the scene is no less sinister if one knows that the red splatters on the women's faces are ketchup. (Earlier in the movie, when the women appear post-attack, the audience registers these blotches as blood.) GYPO is retold through three perspectives that pressure-cook its themes of racism, classism, and emotional intensity. This is no thriller, though, but director Jan Dunn's small Dogme 95 film (the first produced solely in the UK). Middle-aged Helen finds relief from her dysfunctional family's daily maelstrom in her newfound kinship with daughter Kelly's sweet, attentive friend Tasha, who reciprocates with an intensity born of her isolation and uncertain future. A slowness does at times creep into the film's rewinding structure, but the director uses this space to revel in the story's realism, grittiness, and warmth. Sun/19, 6 p.m., Castro. (Laurie Koh)

Healing Sex (Shar Rednour, US, 2004) To the tinkle of New Agey piano, therapist Staci Haines (author of The Survivor's Guide to Sex) calmly looks at the camera and lays out an exemplary plan for sexual healing after sexual trauma. The only problem is that I feel like Healing Sex, directed by Shar Rednour, should come with the label "Don't try this at home without a therapist." With a mixture of self-help instructions, dramatized situations (amateurish, but key), and documentary techniques, Haines covers a lot, including reestablishing boundaries, rewiring the body's instincts, finding pleasure again, and involving a partner in the process. All invaluable information, but truly reopening such wounds could be dangerous without further support. The film is perhaps best as a resource to introduce concepts of healing – especially for survivors without community, who get to see a satisfyingly diverse cast of men and women optimistically dealing with the same issues. June 24, 11 a.m., Castro. (Koh)

Is It Really So Strange? (William E. Jones, US, 2004) Morrissey obsession – we've all been there (and if you haven't, skip to the next review). William E. Jones turns his camera on SoCal's Moz cult, populated by Latino twentysomethings who gather for Smiths-centric club nights, paper their bedroom walls with memorabilia, and sculpt their hair into shiny pompadours. Various topics are covered, including "the first Smiths song I ever heard." Since the singer now makes LA his home, some amusing close encounters are shared, including a sighting of the man himself pawing through his own CDs at the Virgin Megastore. That Morrissey has earned one of music's most devoted fan bases is made quite apparent – Jones himself is an admirer, daring to ask only a few questions when he tags along on a Morrissey photo shoot – but Is It Really So Strange? is almost too respectful; stylistically, it's overly static and hardly as charged as the Moz-world hinted at in the filmmaker's nightlife-heavy still photographs. June 23, 8:15 p.m., Victoria. (Cheryl Eddy)

Just the Two of Us (Jaque Beerson and Barbara Peeters, US, 1975) Desperate Housewives in love? The L Word goes back to the burbs? Female exploitation doyenne Barbara Peeters (director and writer of the 1972 women's biker film Bury Me an Angel) digs into the lonely lot of two bored wives on the outskirts of the time's LA love-ins. Blousy, bosomy femme Adria (Alisa Courtney) and Vita Sackville-West-like upscale butch Denise (Elizabeth Plumb) feel hemmed in by their absent husbands, bad bridge parties, and too much shopping, so when they spy a pair of gorgeous, groovy lesbians at the hippie eatery downtown, their imaginations – and sex lives – get revved. Too bad a random hunk (John Aprea) spoils the afternoon delight. Way less classy than Radley Metzger's britches-rippers but also much less pretentious, Just the Two of Us is subpar softcore sexploitation, full of hilarious dialogue and no-name, lame rock band appearances, but still worthwhile for the relative care and empathy Peeters brings to her heroines. Sat/18, 6 p.m., Roxie. (Kimberly Chun)

Kiki and Herb on the Rocks (Mike Nicholls, UK, 2005) "She got cancer, and I tell you, it humbled her. She's a lot more fun. It's funny how cancer can bring people around. I think more people should get cancer." That bit of wisdom – about a sister named Candy – could only come from the vodka-soaked mind and tongue of Kiki DuRane, cabaret raconteur nonpareil. This documentary follows Kiki and her sidekick-in-the-pants pianist, Herb, during a visit to London, from the screech of their Concorde landing on the runway to the final – fatal? – splash one of them makes after a performance on a boat docked on the Thames. Through it all, Kiki's creator, Justin Bond, reveals why he – and she – are currently without peer. Staying perfectly in character throughout, Bond improvs hilarious lines at a frightening rate. There isn't a lot of musical footage here, though a medley that leaps from Radiohead's "Creep" into the Hues Corporation's "Rock the Boat" certainly fits the seaside venue. "I have never left any place until I was asked to," Kiki declares at one point, but many SF fans wish she and Bond would return to their former hometown. For now, this movie will do. June 22, 10:30 p.m., Castro. (Johnny Ray Huston)

That Man: Peter Berlin (Jim Tushinski, US, 2005) That man, indeed. Jim Tushinski's documentary tribute to a living, breathing (though maybe not still preening) icon of the gay sex revolution has me wondering how I've lived in SF for so long without ever catching a direct glimpse of the one and only Peter Berlin. Admittedly, nowadays the blond master and servant of erotic self-portraiture seems to favor a Garbo-like existence that's the absolute opposite of years spent walking this city's streets in always-skintight and often-sheer getups that inevitably showcased a horn o' plenty (one cucumber, two oranges and a healthy sprinkling of sprouts) bulge in the crotch. Berlin isn't exactly the warmest profile subject, but he proves to be a fascinating one, a Mapplethorpe contemporary whose survival just might have depended on his narcissism: Both his elaborate, striking photography and his time capsule-ready, SF-set X-rated films are products of a libido that's more concerned with – and excited by – looking than touching. Tushinski does a fine job of drawing out his reclusive subject and brings in colorful commentary by John Waters and an even more intelligent and funny observer, '70s porn icon Jack Wrangler. Excellent. June 23, 10 p.m., Castro. (Huston)

Three Dancing Slaves (Gaël Morel, France, 2004) A few years back, I sat near director Gaël Morel at a screening of Ken Park, and it's safe to say Morel's latest movie has taken a cue or two from Larry Clark in terms of ogling young male bodies. This trait is only partly a new one, as Morel is an acolyte of the masterful André Téchiné, whose best film, Wild Reeds (which actually stars Morel), isn't blind to similar sights, though a bit less crude in its appreciation of them. Three Dancing Slaves matches the rare flair for brisk sunlit movement – the capability of capturing teeming activity in a single shot – of the best Téchiné, but the pupil has yet to match his mentor's knack for tying disparate story threads together. Morel's look at a trio of troubled brothers has its angry, La Haine-like moments (courtesy of skinhead Nicolas Cazalé, ever ready to strip), its incisively somber, Erick Zonca-like workforce chapters (featuring former boy toy Stéphane Rideau), and its dreamy first-love passages (Thomas Dumerchez and Salim Kechiouche in a hot beachside tête-à-tête). But those elements don't cohere into anything especially deep or memorable. Fri/17, 10 p.m., Victoria. (Huston)