There are any number of erotic thrillers in which rich old men are robbed blind and/or left for dead, but Georgia Bernstein’s admirably bizarre “Night Nurse” might be the first movie of its kind where elder abuse is the source — and possible subject— of its erotic thrills. If there are others, I’m not sure I want to know.

But this woozy debut feature doesn’t rely on its audience being turned on by the relationship between a nubile caretaker and her dementia-addled patient. Their psychosexual bond, meanwhile, hinges on cold-calling vulnerable old people under the guise of a grandchild in financial distress. (“I’m in trouble, nana, send me $10,000 or I’ll be left to rot in jail!” That sort of thing). With its slim wisp of a premise stretched into a Strickland-esque dreamscape that substitutes kink for conflict, the film itself hardly seems convinced by its own wrinkled lust — all desperate kisses and non-touching poses of subservience. More important to Bernstein is what that lust reveals about her characters’ deepest needs, specifically how their need to care and be cared for can be as easily perverted as any other form of desire. 

As moody and weightless as the noir-accented score that blows through the movie like a curlicue gust of wind in an old cartoon (credit to musicians Sam Clapp and Steven Jackson), “Night Nurse” lacks the pulse required for its stray feelings to come alive. Still, the film ambiently taps into the latent eroticism of teasing out the distance between how you see yourself and who you really are. Bernstein plays with that distance like a telephone cord wrapped around her fingers, and Eleni — played by the excellent newcomer Cemre Paksoy, powerfully helpless — only frays even more as the receiver is brought near the hook. “Everything I did before today wasn’t me,” the nurse tells co-worker Mona (Eleonore Hendricks) after starting a new job at an Illinois retirement home. “It was somebody else.” 

What she did before today remains unexplored (specifically, what she did to get herself fired from her last gig), but I’m guessing she’s probably changed less than she thought. There’s a faraway flicker in her eyes the moment she catches the vibe between Mona and Douglas (a ribald and elusive Bruce McKenzie), a white-haired seventysomething who shows early signs of dementia but still commands an undiminished sexual energy. “I’m not an invalid,” he coos as Mona bathes him in the tub, to which she replies, “yes, you are,” in a supplicant tone that hints at a rich history of power games between them. 

Later that same night, Douglas will force Eleni to call a stranger, pretend that she’s their granddaughter, and ask for money — he’ll wrap the phone cord around the nurse’s body as she talks and shove her against the wall as they kiss. She’s into it. So into it that he has to clarify the terms of his whole deal: “If you’re looking for a pogo stick, I’m really not your guy.” But Eleni isn’t looking for anything to bounce on. She just wants to be needed, and maybe to need someone in return. Someone who will see her for who she really is and allow her the fantasy of pretending she isn’t being herself when she cons vulnerable strangers out of their money — when she exploits how enthralled those strangers are by the care they have for their loved ones.

“Night Nurse” doesn’t belabor the psychology, as Bernstein prefers to express her story through heavy-lidded suggestion. Somnambulating from the moment it starts, the film moves through a series of beautifully arranged poses that stretch their latent meaning thin across the surface (Lidia Nikonova’s cinematography lacquers every shot with a seductive dreaminess). We see Douglas smoking in a lawn chair with Mona and Eleni curled around his feet. Eleni riding in the backseat of a convertible as the wind blows through her curls. The full staff of nurses — all of them under Douglas’ sway — stumbling around his condo in a state of zonked out bliss as they roll on the prescription drugs they’ve stolen from the residents. 

Once you’ve seen one shot of this movie, you’ve practically seen them all, at least until things escalate during a rushed and unsatisfying third act that forces Eleni into an honest confrontation with herself. People will do just about anything to feel needed — they’ll give whatever degree of care allows them to receive it in return. “Night Nurse” understands that desire, but remains far too numb to treat it. 

Grade: C+

The Independent Film Company will relase “Night Nurse” in theaters on Friday, July 10.

Last year’s “Superman” ended with Iggy Pop singing “Because I’m a punk rocker, yes I am” — an ironic coda for a superlatively square hero. But it rings straightforwardly true for Superman’s cousin.

Milly Alcock’s Kara Zor-El, or Supergirl, sports not a spandex suit but a Blondie T-shirt. When we meet her in Craig Gillespie’s “Supergirl,” she’s been on an interstellar bender for days. She’s more Courtney Love than Clark Kent.

Nonchalant and sarcastic, Kara is also a little Han Solo-ish, you might say, given that she moves capriciously through the galaxy in her junky spaceship while getting in fights in extraterrestrial bars. She’s a welcome, jagged riff on more buttoned-up superheroes, and Alcock is terrific in the role. If only “Supergirl” was as good as she is.

While the latest DC release, and second under James Gunn’s stewardship, has its moments, “Supergirl” struggles to match Kara’s punk-rock energy with an equally spirited supporting cast and story.

Skepticism seems to have gathered for “Supergirl” ahead of its release. Many fans have argued it wasn’t the right next step for DC Universe. But I’m not so sure. Alcock’s breezy cameo in “Superman” was one of that movie’s highlights. Handing the follow-up to her, and her faithful floating dog Krypto, strikes me as an extremely natural next step. When in doubt, follow the dog.

And much of “Supergirl” is winning. It resides almost entirely in space, touching down only momentarily on Earth. In its consistently creative production design, clever needle drops and underdog story arc, “Supergirl” resides a little closer to Gunn’s “Guardians of the Galaxy” movies than other DC entries. Its outer space is filled with cosmic detritus, mean characters and cute critters. Seth Rogen as the voice of a tiny alien co-piloting a space bus is an inspired concoction, as is a shabbier sci-fi realm with rest stops along the intergalactic highway.

A family and friends gather for a naming-day ceremony at a Danish seaside hotel, but an unexpected appearance by one uninvited attendee (Trine Dyrholm) ruptures the veil of bland, happy-clappy familial unity in director Mads Mengel’s gutsy, well-wrought debut feature, The Guest.

The most audacious move here may be Mengel and co-screenwriter Christian Bengtson’s choice to write something that will inevitably invite comparisons with Festen (The Celebration), arguably the most notorious Danish-language film of the last 30 years, which similarly revolved around a bougie gathering disrupted by angry revelations. But there’s a savvy 2026 vibe about the way the film refuses to create florid melodrama out of quotidian crisis, and instead observes with generosity as the characters grope awkwardly toward emotional détente and mutual forgiveness.

Festen-alumnus Dyrholm, having a bit of a career moment with outstanding performances both here and in the recent The Girl With the Needle among others, leads a uniformly excellent cast in a work that deserves celebration on the festival circuit and beyond.

Dyrholm’s Vibeke is technically the first person we meet, although she’s seen only in shadow at first as she smokes and drives while her unattached seatbelt, caught outside by a closed door, clatters on the road. This is the kind of unsafe driving her son Karl (Simon Bennebjerg) so deplores, a point of contention later on in the story when he will steal her car keys in interest of her own safety and that of others.

But well before we get to that flashpoint, the film introduces Karl, effectively the film’s protagonist, as he arrives at the swanky resort with his wife Emilie (Mette Klakstein Wiberg) and their infant son Elliot (Buster Lund Luscher). The young family, who’ve chosen this new, secular tradition instead of a christening to welcome their child to the world, are there a day before the ceremony to meet up with core family members.

As this advance party settles down for dinner, a table that includes Karl’s sister Rikke (Josephine Park) and Emilie’s parents Frank (Peter Gantzler) and Kirsten (Petrine Agger), there’s a surprise: Vibeke is coming, courtesy of Rikke’s invitation. Karl is quietly furious and seems determined to turn her away, even when she shows up minutes later. Poor Frank and Kirsten look on confused, determinedly polite in their insistence that all family members should be welcome.

Bengtson and Mengel’s economical script carefully dripfeeds backstory as the film unfolds to explain that Karl hasn’t spoken to his mother in years, that Rikke has taken over all the daily mom management and that she’s very worn out by it. Even so, she insists Vibeke is regularly taking her medication and isn’t a problem these days, although to Karl every weird anecdote and moment of emotional intensity is an augur of impending chaos. Rikke counters that their mother is just “big, that’s her personality not her condition.”

Interestingly, that specific condition is never named throughout, although armchair diagnosticians might spot many of the signs of bipolar disorder. But the film’s emotional focus on the person and her actions rather than the label is also very contemporary, reflecting a more holistic, inclusive mindset and approach to dealing with mental health issues.

Which is all fine and dandy, until Vibeke duly does skip a dosage and starts getting manic. One of the first signs of chemical imbalance arrives during the ceremony on the beach, when Vibeke carries little Elliot much further away from the shore than anyone wants, creating a panic. From there it just gets worse as Vibeke picks up on the censorious feeling emerging from the other party guests, who had found her so charming the night before when she’d led everyone to the casino to play roulette and diverted a bunch of partying teenagers from the room next to Karl and Emilie so they could get some sleep. When the toasts at the formal dinner begin, Vibeke’s mood darkens much further, and if we’ve all learned one thing from Festen, it’s be very afraid when a Dane gets up to make a toast.

Cinematographer David Bauer’s nimble-footed lensing and use of natural light does indeed hark back considerably to the look of those Dogme 95 movies back in the day, as does the naturalistic editing style deployed by Louis Emil Ramm Seeberg. But there are plenty of sins against the rules of cinematic chastity that marked that movement, such as the ample space made for Lasse Aagaard’s affecting, low-key score that amps up the anxiety as Vibeke starts to spiral.

That said, Mengel keeps things simple in sonic terms when it really counts, letting the musicality of Dyrholm’s deep, sonorous voice ring out on its own in the big monologue scenes. She is, as ever, utterly mesmerizing but the performance is made even more powerful by the muted, expressive reactions of the rest of the cast as they look on, frozen like deer in the headlights of the car crash of pseudo-christening. Moments of levity puncture the gloom, but the final feeling is one of numbed sorrow and pity for all these kind, fallible people, just trying to do their best.