Obviously the wiener dog dies, and obviously Todd Solondz doesn’t grant her a peaceful passing. But the protagonist wiener—who, at different points, goes by the names “Wiener Dog,” “Doody,” and, uh, “Cancer”—is primarily a vehicle for Solondz to move through four vignettes of his characters’ fucked-up existences. His tableaus of human vice are bitingly funny, especially as an unforgiving roast of pet owners with savior complexes. But he misses the mark a few times with oddly forced jabs that seem to flirt with backward racist, sexist humor. It’s unbecoming, especially for a director who seems so acutely aware of humanity’s grossest failings. by Ciara Dolan