The current flashback documentary Summer of Soul reminded how few things were more ubiquitous on the radio 50-odd years ago than SF’s own Sly and the Family Stone, a fact obscured by his subsequent gradual retreat from public life. Definitely the ultimate sweaty seasonal party song is that act’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime,” something that finally seemed relevant again in Stone’s erstwhile hometown late last week. (Never mind that while I was writing this, the temperature had dipped to the low 60s again.) Of course, nobody is enthused about those broiling harbingers of climate change that recently baked residents of Portland, Texas, et al. Yet there is still that desire for weather that encourages clothes-shedding and summer recreation of various undulatory natures. Appropriately, then, a spate of new movies seem to be all about the body—at rest and in motion, sometimes fussed and fretted over, sometimes actively imperiled.