Frederick Wiseman has been making his brand of long, implicitly narrative documentaries about institutions for almost 50 years, and I’ll be damned if his most recent, National Gallery, isn’t among his very finest. The movie, which opens today at New York’s Film Forum, examines the London art museum after which it is named from inside out—we see scenes of its patrons looking at art, its guides explaining the art, its administration discussing how to properly share the art with the public, its restorers showing how they preserve the museum’s priceless pieces. It is a calmly brilliant, regularly fascinating three-hour look at what constitutes art and how to best share it.

While watching Juno Temple's exquisite performance in Alexandre Aja's new fantasy/horror/comedy Horns, a name popped into my head: "Winona." In the film, Temple is an angelic and ideal human with a hint of darkness, not unlike the character Winona Ryder played in Edward Scissorhands. Nursing my opinion is the Burton-esque nature of the movie itself, an at times grisly fairytale about an outcast named Ig Perrish (Daniel Radcliffe) who's accused of murdering his girlfriend Merrin (Temple) and then sprouts horns on his head that work as a truth serum to almost everybody he encounters. One by one, friends, family, and, strangers start spilling their most sinful desires to him. Horns is absurd and its tonal variation abrupt enough to exhilarate or infuriate, depending on your taste (it's rare to see a movie that's so uproariously hilarious and gruesome).

If you've ever wondered what it's like to be Keanu Reeves, The Actor in 2014, "it sucks."

In 1994, a South Florida man who goes by the name Gelding was surgically castrated. In 2011, he had his penis removed as well. He's a "nullo": A cisgender man who removes his external genitalia completely as a form of body modification, and he recently agreed to answer our questions—from "why?" to "what do balls taste like?"

Imagine a world in which humorous, sharp conversations about race and identity could be had where multiple perspectives are represented—and many of the participants make good points.

Dan Snaith's most recent album as Caribou, Our Love, spans genres from house to prog ballads, all with a pointed sense of warmth. It's among the year's very best releases. The Canadian producer/singer recently told me by phone that the album was intended to give back to those who'd strongly responded to his last Caribou album, 2010's Swim. Below is a condensed and edited version of our chat, in which we discuss how to balance self-expression with intentionally pleasing listeners.

Music producer Steven Ellison, also known as Flying Lotus, has the kind of career that contemporary artists dream of. He's respected, acclaimed, constantly working, and seems to be having a great time. His wild fifth studio album, You're Dead!, explores the titular concept through boisterous jazz, leftfield hip-hop, blaxploitation throwback sounds, and smooth slow jams. Released this week, Ellison says it is "probably the most accessible record" yet.

Oprah Winfrey has scored an interview with Matthew Sandusky, the adopted son of former Penn State University assistant football coach and convicted sex offender Jerry Sandusky. Matthew has discussed being abused by Jerry, including on the stand, but this will be his first TV interview since Jerry's 2012 conviction. This is being touted as a breaking of Matthew's "three-year silence." It will air Thursday, July 17 at 9 pm on OWN.

We’re 35 floors high above midtown Manhattan and Lee O’Denat occupies the seat across from me. His is a physically-commanding presence—a bull of a man—and I begin to think everything I have read about him up until this point is true. The designer shades. The diamond-encrusted chain. The deceptively knowing smile that spreads across his round face from time to time. He knows something that you don’t.

In 2014, a story about AIDS in San Francisco in 1985 is as relevant as ever. Though it shares subject matter, Chris Mason Johnson's Test is the virtual antithesis of Ryan Murphy and Larry Kramer's survey of the early plague years, The Normal Heart, which aired last month on HBO. Test is smaller in scale, more intimate, virtually free of melodrama, and features characters whose relationship to AIDS is not that they are dying from it, but that they are living in fear of it.

Jonah Hill's name is increasingly becoming synonymous with man-on-man oral sex. On last night's Chelsea Lately, Channing Tatum explained that though he won a bet over the opening weekend gross of 2012's 21 Jump Street that would require Hill to kiss the tip of his dick, he's yet to collect. Again. People will not let him stop talking about this.

Last week, reality star, sex-tape maker, singer (or whatever ), and the subject of the most-viewed post in the history of Gawker (NSFW...of course), Farrah Abraham stopped by our offices to promote her foray into erotic fiction, the roman à clef Celebrity Sex Tape: In the Making. Alongside my friend and old Pot Psychology partner, Jezebel's Tracie Egan Morrissey, we had a discussion about sex, slut-shaming, celebrity, and writing for about 30 minutes. Eight of those are in the video above.

The following is a True Stories conversation between Kameelah Janan Rasheed and Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah.

By his own admission, award-winning author Colson Whitehead went on a “strange odyssey” when he journeyed to Las Vegas for the World Series of Poker. He was on assignment for Grantland, ESPN’s culture website, and had trained for weeks with Helen Ellis, a tournament-hardened card player. But there was just one thing: the odds were, well, stacked against him.

An insane half-hour interview transpired recently when rapper Charles Hamilton walked by a spot on Harlem's 125th Street where someone was filming for the YouTube channel SaNeter.TV. Hamilton was apparently flagged down and had a lot to say about Sonic the Hedgehog, Interscope president Jimmy Iovine, Kanye West, Drake, and homosexuality.

Jim Mickle's moody, genre-skipping film Cold in July opens on a terrifying home invasion and only gets crazier from there. Dexter's Michael C. Hall plays Richard, a man who's thrust into a situation he's in no way prepared for, and then finds himself seduced by it. He ends up pursing a path that blurs the line between vigilantism and wanton criminality.

Over the past month, I've watched several people freak out when I've mentioned 19-year-old Chicago singer/rapper Tink's recent song "Don't Tell Nobody." The duet with Jeremih ("Birthday Sex") is compulsively listenable. It's intricately laid out melodrama told in the filthiest of terms. Switching meter nearly every four bars, with more deftness than even Beyoncé in "Drunk in Love," Tink rap-sings the verses, detailing her man's cheating, her thirst for revenge, and her weakness for being unable to let the whole thing go. It's an aural soap opera made by a prodigious talent.

Geoff Dyer is one of those writers who resists categorization. His books and essays are usually a hybrid of several genres: reporting, memoir, travelogues, criticism, and humor. What makes most of them great, though, is Dyer's digressive curiosity, his ability to let one realization about his ostensible topic—D.H. Lawrence, say, or a donut—drift into some other, often personal or hilarious, thought, which then drifts into something else, perhaps adding a fart joke, on and on, until somehow you're back at the original subject, with an understanding of it that would've been impossible if Dyer had taken another, more direct route.

At 12 p.m. EDT today, the writer Geoff Dyer will drop by Gawker to talk about his new book, Another Great Day at Sea, about life on board the USS George H.W. Bush. If you're a New Yorker subscriber, you can read an excerpt from the book here.

Jeremy Saulnier's Blue Ruin spends its 92 minutes tightening itself around your neck and intermittently striking like a snake. Part genre flick, part meditative indie, Blue Ruin follows protagonist Dwight (Macon Blair) through mostly backwoods Virginia in his attempt to avenge the death of his parents after their murderer is released from jail. Dwight, though, isn't exactly built for vengeance as his bumbling and repeated fuck-ups show. The result is a brutal, sometimes darkly funny exercise in suspense that reminded me of Breaking Bad and the Coen Brothers.