The day of carnal rapture has come! The resurr-sex-tion is about to happen! So proclaims Ray Ray (Johnny Knoxville), the supernatural sex-guru recruiting apostles of love in “A Dirty Shame.” Maybe so, maybe not, but whatever the case, it’s sex, sex, and avant-garde jungle sex this weekend at the movies.

In John Waters’s “A Dirty Shame,” sex vibes are taking over a sleepy street in Baltimore. Neighbors are swinging, lesbians grope one another in public, retired folk are heavy petting on the front lawn, and a family of bears (fat, hairy gay men who fetishize their physique) have just moved in. Respectable housewife Sylvia Stickles (Tracey Ullman) tries to turn a blind eye, but when she bumps her head in a car accident, her inner slut starts running amok. Hello, leopard print spandex!

All of which rankles Big Ethel (Suzanne Shepard), a self-proclaimed “neuter” who organizes an anti-degeneracy mob down at the local convenience store. Like Log Cabin Republicans or Jews for Jesus, hers is an impossible cause. Baltimore is increasingly swarmed by sex maniacs. There are adult babies, dirt fetishists, ticklers, frottage enthusiasts, and devotees of Roman showers (don’t ask).

Led by charismatic Ray Ray, whose polymorphically perverse powers include the ability to resuscitate dead CGI squirrels, the animation of trees via dry humping, and the ability to levitate through erotic concentration, the sex apostles undertake a quest for unprecedented libidinal expression, the heretofore unknown sex act that will call forth the rapture. Promiscuous but vanilla, Sylvia may be their prophet of love.

“A Dirty Shame” is a variation on the standard Waters conflict of liberated outsiders vs. repressive status quo, but it’s his funniest in a long while. For all the relentless sex jokes, nudity, and potty mouthing, it’s an essentially sweet natured movie. Neuters in the audience may disagree, not that they’re likely to expose themselves to it: “A Dirty Shame” is squarely addressed to the Savage Love set.

Ms. Ullman literally throws herself into the part, flailing and quivering with farcical randiness. But it’s Selma Blair who steals the show as her outlandishly zaftig daughter Caprice, aka Ursulla Udders, a go-go dancing super freak who got so jiggy she had to be put under house arrest.

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A director so nice they had to name him twice, Bruce LaBruce has been called the John Waters of Canada – if so, he’s still in his “Pink Flamingoes” phase. Founder of the queercore movement (a gay rebuttal to punk), Mr. LaBruce is known, marginally, as the author of such underground films as “No Skin Off My Ass,” “Super 8 1 /2,” and “Hustler White,” a gloss on “Sunset Boulevard” that is notorious for its X-rated celebration of amputee lovemaking. Lowdown, dirty, and fabulously cheeky, cinema a la Bruce is, needless to say, a specialized taste.

Opening today at the Quad, “Raspberry Reich” is destined for a secret shelf life next to the other tapes you hide when polite company comes calling. Starring a virile ensemble of young German talent, it is an explicitly pornographic send up of Berlin-style radical chic; a skin flick you might put on a double bill with Godard’s “La Chinoise,” Fassbinder’s “The Third Generation,” or Makavejev’s “WR – Mysteries of the Organism.”

“Heterosexuality is the opiate of the masses!” “The revolution is my boyfriend!” “Join the homosexual intifada!” With such priceless slogans does Gundrun (Susanne Sachsse) rouse her cadre of tumescent revolutionaries. They are the Raspberry Reich, a horny left-wing organization named in honor of Jean-Carl Raspe of the Baader-Meinhof Gang and sexual theorist Wilhelm Reich.

Committed to smashing bourgeois ideology, posing in front of Che Guevara wallpaper, and mouthing hilariously post-dubbed dialogue, they have kidnapped Patrick, handsome son of a wealthy German banker. As it happens, Patrick is more than happy to join the homosexual intifada, as we’ve previously observed.

Chunks of left-wing theory scroll helter-skelter over the image, and techno-pop provides a heavy-breathing backbeat, while Gundrun expounds, convincingly, on the counter-revolutionary nature of cornflakes. Tongue firmly in cheek (among other places), Mr. LaBruce mocks the co-option of 1970s radicalism by the Euro smart set – you might smear these raspberries on Gerhard Richter’s impossibly chic Baader-Meinhof paintings, or chuck them at a Raf Simons catwalk.

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Impossible to forget, impossible to pronounce, filmmaker Apichatpong Weerasethakul is finally seeing his masterpiece open for a New York theatrical run. Cheers to Anthology Film Archives for stepping up where timid distributors have chickened out. “Blissfully Yours” is sensational.

This uncompromising film can feel shapeless until you discover the simplicity of its form, obscure until you realize that a large part of its meaning is, quite literally, clear as day. In plainest terms, it is the story of three stressed-out people taking the afternoon off and driving into the jungle for a picnic and sex. The first hour is angular, urban, socio-political, gently oblique; the second is liquid, primal, sensual, strange. (There’s a delightful surprise dividing these two sections.) The movement from city to country, geometry to flux, politics to sex, is a kind of happy entropy. “Blissfully Yours” doesn’t resolve a story, it deliquesces into states of feeling.

Suffering from a painful skin condition, a Burmese immigrant named Min (Min Oo) visits the doctor escorted by his girlfriend Roong (Kanokporn Tongaram) and an older woman, Orn (Jenjira Jansuda), who runs a boarding house in this small Thai town. They attempt to coax a prescription from the doctor, tiptoeing around Min’s uncertain residential status. Denied the medication, Roong goes back to work on the assembly line of a souvenir factory. Orn, preoccupied by troubles in her marriage bed, chops vegetables for an improvised skin cream.

Later that afternoon, Roong feigns illness at work and heads off with Min for an afternoon lunch. Their exodus from the city is recorded in long, unbroken shots: a documentary approach to landscape and the real-time “weight” of bodies moving through space. What distinguishes Mr. Weerasethakul’s style from, say, the neo-neorealism of a Kiarostami or Jia Zhangke is his hypersensitivity to his characters’ bodies. Min’s condition is both physical and political; his exposure, irritation, and sensitivity to touch conflates these two meanings.

No wonder the film’s central image is also its most sexually explicit. Lounging by a crystal-clear stream, Roong caresses Min to erection. This radically charged slice of real time brims with pleasure and light, and buzzes with the noise of insects. There’s nothing remotely prurient about this audacious scene, but it’s more potent than anything in “A Dirty Shame” or “Raspberry Reich.” It mirrors the effect of “Blissfully Yours” itself. The film’s title is exactly right.

As it breaks down into organic profusion – sun-dappled bush, canopies of vine, cool flowing streams, bright red berry patches, monumental expanses of flesh – “Blissfully Yours” soaks a dazed warmth into the viewer. By the final moments, when Orn reunites with the lovers for a dip in the water, the movie’s metabolism has slowed to a snail’s pace. The last image reaches toward eternity, as Roong and Min lay on their backs, stare at the sky, and hover on the edge of consciousness. Sublime.

So what, exactly, is blissfully ours? Many things: a sophisticated avant-garde narrative; a road movie with invisible roads; a Joycean conflation of physiology and geography. Like all great cinema, “Blissfully Yours” arouses and satiates desire, and so is also a form of pornography – a visionary, beguiling, and benevolent skin flick.