This movie stinks. Director Ben Leon has a knack for putting the sultry smell of man-sex right under our noses, and The 4th Floor, a delightfully filthy flick, reeks with the sweet funk of sweaty balls and armpits. Leon’s dimly lit playpen, crammed with greasy gears and mechanical doodads, is a peculiar cross between your grandparents’ attic and the guts of an elevator shaft, a space that feels alternately dangerous and curious. There’s plenty of dusty nooks and crannies for this mostly fuzzy cast of sex pigs to play in, all of them draped with varying degrees of shadow. The gorgeously bearded and inked Logan McCree dominates the action, appearing in two of the film’s five vignettes. In the opening sequence, McCree bags and tags Roman Ragazzi, an encounter that starts rough but turns tender. Then finding himself alone with nothing but a socket wrench and a margarine tub half‑full of stale Crisco, McCree slowly works himself into a frenzy, dipping one, then two greasy fingers into his hole while the camera hovers just inches below his hips. Nearly all of the pair-ups work well, but McCree tips the scale in the right direction here.