Before I (first) got married in 1994, one of my brothers drunkenly noted I should think about the fact I was “committing to one vagina” for the remainder of my years.

Or maybe I saw that in an ’80s comedy?

I’m not for certain. Either way, the advice represents men’s primary misgiving about marriage. It’s existed maybe one day fewer than the concept of matrimony itself — and arguably never used to better onscreen effect than Jim Cummings and co-conspirator PJ McCabe have in The Beta Test.

Cummings’ Jordan, an overstressed Hollywood agent, is engaged to the lovely Caroline (Virginia Newcomb, wonderful in The Death of Dick Long). While his heart may be (mostly) in it, his eyes certainly aren’t, wandering like a hobo with ADHD. So when an unmarked invitation arrives in the mail promising a 100% anonymous and discreet sexual encounter tailored to his every fantasy, he bites.

Too good to be true? Just the opposite — and then some. In fact, the sex is so mind-blowing, he not only can’t stop thinking about it, but about the machinations behind the temptation. Who was she? Who arranged it? Why him? Why at all? Is he one of a million or one in a million? Not knowing gets the best of him, which brings out the worst in him.

As we know from decades of watching thrillers, paranoia is never a good thing for anyone — except for those on our side of the screen. Just as Jordan can’t help but keep his one-afternoon stand top of mind, nor can I keep The Beta Test away from mine. It’s one of only two releases this year to stick with me.

Those of us young enough to remember the national conversation around Fatal Attraction can picture the same post-screening hubbub between spouses and significant others: “What would you do?” You’d not be out of line to peg The Beta Test as an update of the late-’80s erotic thriller for an evermore superficial and narcissistic America, but with a ruthless and acidic sense of humor.

Built on a premise original enough to avert audiences from getting a step ahead of it, The Beta Test charms with genre-bending verve and intelligence. From Thunder Road to The Wolf of Snow Hollow to this, Cummings’ work as a director gains more confidence — and mainstream accessibility, not that our country at large yet deserves him.

As an actor, he may play slight variations on high-strung, but every time I see him pop up in films — whether the absurdist Greener Grass or the bloody Halloween Kills — I’m assured delight. Considering Jordan is unquestionably an asshole, to revel in him squirming as I root for Cummings is an odd experience, and entirely pleasurable. —Rod Lott