In a small town in Argentina where nothing bad ever happens, young women go missing. Because this mystery drives the film The Dollmaker, certainly the title character can’t be involved, can he?

That craftsman of crude, creepy-faced, burlap-sack dolls would be Tomás (Rodrigo Noya, Valentin), an adult virgin in unforgiving cola-bottle spectacles. He assists at the community clinic and clerks at the only video store, peculiarly Boy Scouts of America-themed. He also lives with his invalid mother — well, sort of.

Director José María Cicala (2021’s Shadow of the Cat) and co-scripter Griselda Sanchez sure do stack Tomás’ deck with weirdo cards. As if you can’t read the vibes, his house’s mailbox is marked “FAMILIA LYNCH,” yet The Dollmaker recalls as much Picket Fences and Northern Exposure as it does Twin Peaks. With so many characters introduced, most notably Sanchez as a troubled single mom and Dum-Dum-sucking diner waitress who falls for Tomás, it takes a while — too long, I’d argue — to get a bead on your surroundings and who’s even integral to the plot. All the while, Cicala’s intent to wrong-foot viewers is fully transparent.

The decoupaged opening credits suggest something out of the ordinary. Instead, The Dollmaker is average overall, albeit with above-average competence hampered by a comedic streak wobbling uncomfortably between absurdist and sitcom. Wild and wildly uneven, the movie fails to end in a satisfying manner, feeling like it planted a dozen mines along the way, but forgot to trigger eight or nine of them. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

As I learned from the 2011 horror anthology Little Deaths, the French term translating to “little death” is synonymous for “orgasm.” No wonder the Jason Voorhees stand-in at the heart of Jane Schoenbrun’s Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is named Little Death. In fact, that connection is so intrinsic to the film, I wonder if unfamiliarity with the definition might lessen one’s enjoyment.

Oh, well — I’ll never know. Just as the character of Kris (Hannah Einbinder, HBO’s Hacks) may never be able to recapture that childhood feeling of watching the Camp Miasma movies on VHS. Now a Sundance-lauded queer filmmaker (as was Shoenbrun theirself), Kris has secured a studio gig to revive the Friday the 13th-esque franchise with an origin story of Little Death (Jack Haven, née Brigette Lundy-Paine of Bill & Ted Face the Music), its culturally iconic, seemingly immortal serial killer with spear in hand and A/C vent over its head.

Kris hopes to recruit the original Miasma’s camp counselor-cum-final girl, Billy, to reprise her role, but the the mystery-shrouded actress has long left the biz. Traveling to talk her out of retirement, Kris is stunned to discover Billy (Gillian Anderson, The X-Files) lives on the abandoned campgrounds where the movie was shot. And no wonder — the place looks magical, thanks to all-aces production design that extends to all corners.

They bond, as all the single ladies are wont, over KFC and weed. Then, conventions warp in ways Shoenbrun excels: with enormous potential to make half of America feel astronomically uncomfortable. (To be clear, the half whose sphincters tighten in fear of seeing a same-sex kiss.)

A huge leap up and forward for the writer/director, Teenage Sex and Death is a worthy companion to their last film, the tube-obsessed I Saw the TV Glow. Like that 2024 pic, we’re served a multigenre stew boiling in a base of nightmares, this time with the recipe tweaked to allow a full-blown comic sensibility as deliciously rich as the British-style KitKat bars (trust me, yum) strewn across Billy’s bed. Break me off a piece.

And yet, even with all the good humor, to visit Miasma is to patronize a bazaar of the bizarre, from entire set pieces to offhand moments, like a videotape entering and exiting a gooey, lipped wall slit that four out of five learned OB-GYNs might dub a “Cronengina.” The movie’s midpoint massacre, the hands-down highlight, will grant Counting Crows’ “A Long December” an instant Spotify boost and, speaking long-term, one more generation of cultural relevancy. 

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is destined to enjoy longer life among queer cineastes and horror enthusiasts alike (not that their Venn diagram circles are near-separates these days), in largest part for Anderson’s performance. She plays Billy as the type of vampy, Southern thang Jessica Lange built a career upon. Anderson does it so well, the role could emerge as the other most-beloved character of her brilliant career. —Rod Lott